


The Eichen Knight

by Dexterous_Sinistrous, TheCriminal



Series: Art Shorts [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Batman, Alternate Universe - Human, Arkham Knight Derek Hale, Batman Chris Argent, Commissioner Stilinski, Harley Quinn Lydia, Hurt/Comfort, Joker Peter Hale, M/M, Nightwing Allison Argent, Oracle Stiles Stilinski, Past Peter Hale/Lydia Martin, Past Relationship(s), Presumed Dead, Psychological Trauma, Vigilante Derek Hale, Vigilante Stiles Stilinski, mentions of Peter Hale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCriminal/pseuds/TheCriminal
Summary: “Get the hell away from him!”Stiles looked at the Eichen Knight.“He knows who Batman is,” Scarecrow simply stated, dragging the sharp edge of the needle against the skin of Stiles’ arm. She lightly laughed when Stiles flinched. “You seem attached.”“Get out,” the Knight demanded.“Or?” Scarecrow pressed.The Knight drew his sidearm, pointing the barrel directly between Scarecrow’s eyes. “I told you—step on my toes, and I’ll do what Batman never had the guts to do.”“And if I call your bluff?” Scarecrow carefully asked.The Knight took a step towards Scarecrow, pressing the cold metal barrel against her forehead as he clicked the hammer back. “Have you ever seen me bluff?” He dared her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This is the fic that I teased more than a year ago where Derek is the Arkham Knight, aka Jason Todd.
> 
> Not everyone is a direct counterpart, per track record of my usual AUs. I play around with AUs, messing with mythology, the environment, relationships, etc. and explore the possibilities. If you are a Batman fan, you will get some of the stuff, and hopefully be openminded to the other stuff.
> 
> There is some graphic violence in this fic, so please be advised on that.

“Let me go,” Scarecrow huffed as Chris grabbed her.

“Tell me how to shut this down?” Chris demanded, hearing the alarms blare in the background.

“Let me go, or he dies,” Scarecrow answered, coughing as she tried to catch her breath.

“Who?” Chris yelled, annoyed with her antics.

It was always a show with Beacon’s worse villains.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Scarecrow stated with a smile in her voice. She knew she got to Batman when the grip on her slipped.

Chris stilled. “Stiles,” he started, drawing up the video call. “Stiles, get out of there, now!”

Stiles’ eyebrows furrowed. “Why? No one knows I’m here.”

“Just get out of there!” Chris snapped.

“Why are you—”

The screen turned to a grainy fuzz, static crackling as Stiles’ image disappeared. “Nightwing—”

“I’m heading there now,” Allison answered. She had started her bike’s engine the moment Scarecrow mentioned Stiles’ name. She needed to get to the Clock Tower before whatever Scarecrow had planned took effect.

“He can’t—”

“I know!” Allison snapped, not wanting to think about what would happen if she didn’t reach Stiles in time.

~*~

Stiles started to purge the computers, sending what he could to Beacon PD. He entered the codes to fry what was left on the hard drives, hoping it was enough. The alarms blared in his ears, a constant reminder that the clock was ticking. He could hear the elevator running.

Stiles grabbed the gun he had hidden beneath the keyboard’s stand. He spun his wheel chair around to face the elevator. He waited for the doors to open, keeping his breathing calm.

The first two soldiers through the door raised their automatic weapons at Stiles as they barged into the Clock Tower.

Stiles quickly shot both the men, the electricity being delayed after attaching to the men’s armor. He watched as the men shook from the electrocution, falling to the ground as the spasms pulsed through them.

A grapple shot out from the elevator, snatching the gun from Stiles’ hold.

“You never disappoint,” the Knight stated, the scrambler disguising his voice.

Stiles glared at him as other soldiers came into the Clock Tower. He remained still as one of them held a gun on him.

“Secure the place,” the Knight instructed, moving to stand in front of Stiles.

“Breaking into a cripple’s home, real brave,” Stiles snapped at the Knight. “My dad’s not going to be too happy about this.”

The Knight shook his head, turning away from Stiles. “We’re not too concerned about the Commissioner interrupting us.” He looked at the various gadgets on the bookshelves, turning his head here and there. He paused when he saw one of the picture frames.

Stiles tensed when he noticed the Knight taking a step closer to the bookshelf.

The Knight picked up the frame, observing the photo in it.

It was a photo of Derek and Stiles. Stiles had taken the photo when they were lounging out in the field at one of the music festivals he had managed to drag Derek to. There were too many drunk people, the music was too loud, but they were free from Beacon for that weekend. They didn’t have to worry about fighting crime, or clashing heads with Chris—they got to be a young couple on vacation. Derek was lounging in Stiles’ lap, one eye closed against the glare of the sun. Stiles’ long legs were housing Derek’s torso as he leaned down to balance the camera against Derek’s stomach. Stiles was pressing a kiss to Derek’s temple as he looked at the camera.

“Don’t touch that,” Stiles angrily snapped.

“Sentimental,” the Knight commented, turning to look at Stiles. “Foolish.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles hissed through his teeth. “Put that down.”

“What about this?” One of the soldiers asked the Knight, gesturing towards the grandfather clock. “Some kind of hi-tech lock.”

The Knight placed the framed photo down, moving over to the clock. “There’s a hidden compartment.” He turned to look at Stiles. “Open it.”

Stiles glared at him.

“Should I break a finger?” One of the soldiers asked.

“Touch him, and you won’t have a hand,” the Knight immediately threatened, a dark tone overpowering the scrambler.

Stiles looked at the Knight, his eyebrows furrowing.

The Knight moved over to the grandfather clock, inspecting the lock. He saw the keypad that asked for a code. He looked at Stiles, noticing that he wasn’t going to give them an answer. He turned to the keypad, typing in a code only to be met with an error.

“Are you trying to break the code?” One of the soldiers pondered. “That’s got to be over a thousand combos.”

The Knight ignored him as he continued to try codes.

Stiles noticed that the Knight entered his father’s birthday. “I don’t know why you’re bothering, you’ll never get it.”

The Knight tried another code—Claudia’s birthday.

Stiles’ eyes widened, realizing the Knight knew more than he thought. “There’s nothing in there that you need,” he stated in desperation.

The Knight was about to enter another code but paused. His hand hovered over the keypad. He turned to look at Stiles, his head turning towards the picture frame he had inspected. He released a heavy sigh as he started typing in the code.

“Christmas?” A soldier noted. “What, some kind of holiday nut?” He laughed.

Stiles looked away from the grandfather clock, tears burning his eyes.

“Derek Hale’s death,” the Knight stated, pulling the contraption open as the lock gave way.

“The goodie-goodie Joker killed?” A soldier asked, turning his attention towards Stiles. “Have a hard on for a dead Hale, huh?”

Stiles refused to look at him.

“Holy shit,” another soldier noted when they saw the suit in the Clock Tower.

Stiles’ suit was in pristine condition, as new as the last day he wore it. It was hung on an invisible mannequin, displaying the suit in all its glory.

“The Robin that Joker crippled? Him?” The soldier that threatened Stiles questioned.

Stiles turned his attention towards the Knight, wanting to ask how he knew about the hidden compartment—how he knew about Derek. He felt an icy ball of dread falling deep in his stomach when he saw the Knight crouching, picking up the folded suit in the bottom of the compartment.

“He has two?” A soldier asked.

“The Red Robin’s,” the Knight commented as he turned the suit in his hands. His glove hand ran across the reinforced fabric—his fingertip touched one of the holes in the chest. Three perfectly shaped bullet holes.

“That’s the one Joker killed,” one of the men stated.

“Derek Hale,” the Knight elaborated.

“Don’t fucking touch that,” Stiles yelled, gaining all their attentions. “Don’t you dare touch it! Put it back,” angry tears burned his eyes as he nearly screamed at the men.

“Sentiment gets you nowhere, Stiles,” the Knight stated. “I thought you would have learned that by now.”

A smoke pellet burst, a grey smoke billowing to cover Stiles from the soldiers.

“It’s the Bat!” One of the soldiers yelled.

“It can’t be,” another coughed. “He’s across town.”

The soldiers started to cough, unable to breath or see in the growing smoke.

The Knight silently moved to place his back to the wall, waiting for the inevitable attack. He was waiting for the men to start disappearing one by one, as if he knew the Bat’s playbook all too well.

Allison kicked back, slamming the sole of her boot into one of the soldier’s chests. She rolled to the side, avoiding another soldier’s attack. She focused on dispatching as many soldiers as she could, knowing she caused permanent damage in most of them.

“Nightwing!” Stiles yelled to get Allison’s attention.

Allison knew there was someone coming up behind her, sensing him at the last second. She swung her fist at the person.

An armored gauntlet grabbed Allison’s clenched fist in its hand. The armored figure squeezed to keep its hold on Allison when she tried to wrench her arm away.

Allison stared at the armored figure, knowing it was the Eichen Knight. She tried to kick him in the side, a distraction that would let her get her arm back.

The Knight easily grabbed her leg, arm curling around Allison’s thigh to stop her assault. He used his brute strength to lift Allison, throwing her into one of the many bookshelves lining the Clock Tower’s walls.

Allison drew in a sharp breath of pain, rolling onto her side as she tried to get her bearings. Her side hurt, her head ringing from the impact—she wasn’t used to being outmatched in combat. She looked up at the Knight as he took a few steps towards her.

“Is that all you have?” The Knight’s voice teased, the voice scrambler making it difficult to recognize. “I thought Batman would have upped your training by now.”

Allison released an annoyed huff as she flipped up onto her feet. She took a prepared stance, taking easy and calculated steps to avoid the Knight’s advancing ones. “I don’t know what you want, but you’re not taking Stiles,” she firmly stated.

“And whose going to stop me?” The Knight asked as he stopped pacing. “You, Allison?”

Allison’s features fell, her face paling some as she debated just turning and fleeing with Stiles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she countered.

“Learn to lie better, Allie,” the Knight scoffed as he moved forward with intent.

Allison ducked out of the way, barely avoiding the Knight’s knee coming into contact with her stomach. She dropped a smoke pellet, quickly moving over to Stiles. She lifted Stiles into a fireman’s carry, rushing out of the Clock Tower. She headed towards the roof, knowing it was the one place the Knight’s men weren’t swarming.

“Allison, you can’t carry me and—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Allison snapped, angry that Stiles believed she could even think about abandoning him. She moved to settle him beside one of the many gargoyles, knowing the steeple of the Clock Tower mostly hid Stiles from view. “I just need to think about what to do. I can—”

A bullet tore through the shingles of the Clock Tower’s steeple, crumpled clay scattering into the air. Allison moved to cover Stiles, trying to keep her armor as a barrier between him and the bullets.

“You can’t fly away this time,” the Knight taunted.

Allison didn’t know how he found them so fast, wondering how long they had planned this assault. It would have taken months, maybe even years, to obtain the layouts of the Clock Tower and the chemical plant let alone making a plan of attack.

“Nightwing, go!” Stiles snapped at Allison, wishing she would just leave him.

Allison ignored Stiles, turning to fight the Knight. She glared at him, her eyes focused on the gun he had pointed at her. “If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me,” she angrily baited him.

“Where’s the fun in that,” the Knight countered as he holstered his gun.

Allison raised her arms, fists clenched as she prepared to fight him. It didn’t change anything—the Knight was stronger than her, almost able to predict every hit she threw at him. She hit him as hard as she could, watching him stumble back some.

The Knight released a low chuckle as he held an arm to his stomach. “You got better.” He stood to his full height. “But you’re still not good enough.”

Allison fumbled when the Knight attacked her, trying to dodge him to avoid another hit. She missed his knee driving up into her stomach. She coughed, staggering some as she tried to gain her balance again. She stumbled when the Knight grabbed her arm, yanking her back in close to him as he slammed her into the siding. She wasn’t able to get up before the Knight grabbed her cape, ripping her up off the ground.

“Fly home to daddy,” the Knight nearly growled in Allison’s ear.

Allison could almost hear the Knight’s real voice, the scrambler breaking some—it sounded so familiar.

“Tell him when this night is through, he’ll have one less bird to break,” the Knight stated before shoving Allison off the roof.

“Allison!” Stiles yelled, trying to move to reach for her off the ledge. He tried to pull his body over, his legs being the dead weight that stopped him from falling off the edge after Allison.

The Knight grabbed Stiles, yanking him away from the ledge.

Stiles turned, slamming a discarded brick he managed to grasp into the Knight’s helmet.

The Knight released Stiles, staggering some as he lingered over him. “That was really stupid, Stiles,” he answered, grabbing a handful of Stiles’ shirt as he pulled him up off the ground. “Someone else would have killed you for that.”

Stiles punched and pried at the Knight’s hands when he grabbed him, all in failing attempts to get him to let go. He struggled as best he could, knowing deep down that it wouldn’t change a thing, not when the Knight lifted him over his shoulder with such ease.

~*~

Allison drew in a sharp breath when Lydia managed to pop her shoulder back into the socket.

Lydia applied the ice pack with care, her other hand moving to brush Allison’s hair from her face. “You did all you could.”

“And it wasn’t enough,” Allison angrily answered. She gestured at Lydia to stop, that she was fine without the tender affection. In truth, she was still stewing in anger at herself for being beaten—for not saving Stiles.

“What happened?” Chris asked as he descended the stairs, coming to a stop on the platform with Lydia and Allison.

Lydia looked at Chris. “She was outnumbered because you decided the greater good didn’t involve Stiles’ safety,” she sharply stated.

“Lydia,” Allison tiredly sighed. She turned to look at her father, noticing that he didn’t have his mask on for once. It made her feel better, being able to see the concern he had written on his features.

“Were you outnumbered?” Chris asked.

Allison scoffed out a laugh. “No, it was one guy.” She shook her head. “I could barely get a hit in—it was like he knew my every move.”

“Who?” Chris demanded, bewildered at who could have bested Allison.

“They’re calling him the Eichen Knight,” Lydia explained. “He … well, his suit looks like one of ours, surprisingly.” She turned her attentions to the computers when Allison silently took over holding the ice pack. She pulled up an image of the Eichen Knight that she managed to get from one of the many police security cameras. “It’s a high tech, military grade suit—I’d say they stole the blueprints for the Bat Suit, but that would be disregarding the improvements they’ve made.”

“Improvements,” Chris repeated, inspecting the images Lydia produced.

“Titanium alloy, but this time he doesn’t have the sectioned off pleaded plates that you do on your torso,” Lydia explained, magnifying on the Knight’s armor. “He’s built like a tank with no weaknesses.”

“He hits like a tank,” Allison commented, rotating her neck some as she stretched out the tightness in her muscles. “I’ve never fought someone who could—” She stilled, her words dying.

Lydia looked at Allison when she stopped talking. She noticed the uncertainty in Allison’s features. “Allie?”

“Fly home to daddy,” Allison repeated the Knight’s words. She looked at Lydia and Chris. “He knew who I was—more importantly, he knows who you are.”

Chris’s brow furrowed at such a statement. “That’s hard to believe.”

“It can’t be,” Allison softly uttered, sliding off the countertop. She took a step towards the monitor, inspecting what little information they had on the Eichen Knight. “Is he a good shot?”

“What?” Lydia asked as she looked at Allison.

“His marksmanship,” Allison elaborated, looking at Lydia. “Have you run across any footage of him firing his sidearm?”

The corner of Lydia’s mouth twisted in perplexity. “I mean, I can run a search for it,” she offered, moving to stand in front of the keyboard. She typed in an algorithm, looking up at the monitor when several of the cameras pinged.

Allison’s brow creased when the footage played for them.

“I’d say he’s a crack shot,” Lydia grimaced as another criminal was shot.

“Then how the hell did he miss Stiles’ head?” Allison asked as she looked at Lydia.

“He could have been rushed—”

“He had ample opportunity to shoot Stiles—to shoot me,” Allison argued. “He could have put a rather large hole in my head, but didn’t.”

“What are you getting at, Allison?” Chris asked.

“I think …” Allison paused turning to look back at the monitor. “He wanted Stiles for a reason. Acting like he was protecting him—from us.”

“Why would the Eichen Knight want to protect Stiles?” Lydia countered.

“I think you know why,” Allison replied. She looked at her father. “I think you know too.”

“I don’t know who the Knight is, Allison,” Chris plainly stated.

“No, you don’t want to know that he’s the Knight,” Allison sharply countered.

Lydia turned to look back at the monitor, staring up at the Knight as she tested Allison’s theory. She typed in another string of computer code. Images of the Knight flickered across the monitor, scanning for matching statistics.

“89% Match,” the computer’s voice loudly announced once it finished running Lydia’s command.

Lydia looked at Chris and Allison. “I think an 89% chance is kind of hard to argue.”

"Derek Hale is dead," Chris lowly stated, his hands tightening into fists. "The Joker killed him—"

"Do you have a better guess?" Allison demanded of her father. "He knew me—he knew my fighting style; he knew Stiles lived in the Clock Tower; he knows you're my father. Who else could it be?"

Chris looked back up at the computer's large monitor. He stared at the large compilation of photos Lydia pulled up of Derek. They were from happier memories, when the group had less to worry about than a psycho clown prince.

Lydia noticed the tension in Chris' stance. "I'll run a more thorough analysis, but ..." She sighed. "I don't think it's going to change the outcome."

Chris turned to exit the cave, replacing his helmet as he did so. "Do that. For now, I'm going after Stiles."

~*~

Stiles was sitting between two of the soldiers, his hands folded in his lap as he listened to the men talk.

“These degenerates really don’t think about the future well,” the soldier on Stiles’ right stated.

“They just want to have some fun,” the soldier on Stiles’ left answered.

“Why are we even here, boss?” The driver decided to ask the Knight.

Stiles looked at the Knight sitting in the passenger seat. Even though he couldn’t see anything except a computerized projection of where the man’s eyes should be, he knew the Knight was looking at him in the Humvee’s rearview mirror.

“Putting an end to this shithole,” the Knight answered, turning his gaze away from the rearview mirror. He looked out the Humvee’s window, seeing the different gangs running about, looting and causing chaos for what was left of Beacon.

“Why do we need him again?” The right soldier asked. “Seems like useless baggage.”

Stiles dared to look at the soldier. “That’s rich, coming from the waste of space you are.” He closed his eyes and flinched when he saw the soldier moving to hit him.

“Didn't I make myself clear in there? Try and touch him again, and I’ll break your fucking hand,” the Knight angrily snapped, the voice scrambler sharply wavering under the sudden outburst.

Stiles opened his eyes, seeing that the soldier had shrunk back into the seat instead of hitting him.

“Sorry, boss,” the soldier apologized.

Stiles looked in the rearview mirror, seeing that the Knight was looking at him again. He glared at the man before finally looking down at the shifter of the Humvee. He saw that the driver had popped in the lighter, waiting for it to heat up.

“Smoking will kill you,” Stiles stated.

The soldiers, besides the Knight, laughed at Stiles’ statement.

The lighter popped, and Stiles made a grab for it.

The Knight seemed to sense Stiles' movement before it happened. He made a grab for Stiles’ hand, but was unable to stop him in time.

Stiles pressed the lighter into the driver’s neck, switching hands when the Knight tightly grabbed his other arm. He used the driver’s distracted screams to grab the wheel, jerking it as hard as he could in order to direct the speeding vehicle into the cement riot barrier.

The Knight shoved Stiles back into the seat, pushing out of his own seat to keep Stiles in the back as the Humvee—where it would be safest.

Stiles held onto his seatbelt as the Humvee crashed.

~*~

"My son," John Stilinski uttered as he turned around in the Clock Tower. “They took my son because of you?” He demanded as he looked at Batman.

“Stiles knew what he was doing, John,” Chris countered.

“This isn’t about what my son thought he was doing!” John angrily snapped. “Of course Stiles would think he was doing good by helping you! By putting himself in danger for this stupid city! And after what happened to Derek? Of course he'd do this for you.”

Chris remained silent as he watched John. “We’re doing everything to get him back, John,” he finally answered. “We won’t let anything happen to him.”

“Things have already _happened_ to him,” John seethed. “Or do you not remember how he was crippled!” He paused his pacing, turning to look at Batman. “Was that— was that because of you?” He took a step forward. “Did that _psycho_ come after my boy because of you?!”

Chris remained silent. “The Joker went after Stiles because—”

John punched Chris before he could finish. He nursed his hand some, knowing he cut his knuckles on the side of Chris' helmet. “You keep the hell away from me and my family, you understand me? I’ll get Stiles back myself!” He angrily concluded as he headed out the elevator.

~*~

Stiles was disoriented as he crawled his way out of the wreckage. He knew it was foolish to cause the accident, but he had to get away. He had the encrypted data still on him, and it was his last hope for Chris to stop Scarecrow.

“Stop,” one of the soldiers called out, disoriented as he stumbled from the wreckage.

Stiles turned his head to see the soldier trying to gain his balance. He saw the passenger door to the armored vehicle fly off the hinges, an armored boot having kicked it off. He knew it was the Knight. He tried to crawl faster when he saw the disoriented soldier raising his gun.

“Hey!” The soldier yelled again when he realized Stiles wasn’t stopping. “I said stop!”

Stiles startled, arms covering his head when the shot rang out. He felt the dirt fly up near his arm, knowing it was a warning shot. He yelped when another shot rang out, turning his head to see the Knight lowering his gun—a gun that had been pointed at the soldier who shot at Stiles. He stared at the unmoving soldier, seeing him lifeless on the ground.

The Knight holstered his gun, walking towards Stiles. “I told you,” he started in a reprimanding tone. “Other people would kill you for less.”

“You just shot your own man,” Stiles shakily stated, looking at the Knight. “Why should I trust you with my life when your own subordinate can’t?”

“He was trying to shoot you,” the Knight simply answered as he moved to crouch beside Stiles. “These men you suddenly seem to feel bad for,” he started, gesturing towards the destroyed armor vehicle and the dead soldier. “They’re all bad men— _really_ bad men. Men that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. They follow orders well enough, but at the end of the day, they are just as corrupt and twisted as the powerful in Beacon.”

Stiles’ glare didn’t soften. “Killing all of Beacon won’t change anything,” he uttered. “There is always corruption—it doesn’t mean you give up on an entire city. A city of _innocent_ people.”

“Innocent?” The Knight snapped. “ _Innocent_ is a strong word to be throwing around Beacon, Stiles.” He moved to stand, an angry gate in his walk. “Scarecrow, Poison Ivy— _The Joker._ The city that nurtured them, and allowed them to play out their sickest fantasies. You want _that_ city to live?” He shook his head, stopping his movements as he turned to look up at the Bat signal in the sky. “You of all people have experienced the horrors of this city first hand.”

Stiles took his chance, throwing the drive to the side in order to discard it while the Knight was distracted. “It doesn’t mean I’ve given up on people,” he finally countered.

The Knight turned back to Stiles, standing above him. “The Red Robin—”

“Don’t,” Stiles quickly uttered.

“If Batman had killed the Joker, all this wouldn’t have happened,” the Knight stated. “You wouldn’t be crippled, and Derek Hale wouldn’t be dead.”

Tears burned Stiles’ eyes. He didn’t protest when the Knight grabbed his arm, allowing the Knight to haul him up over his shoulder. “If Derek Hale loved me,” he started, unsure why he was even bothering to argue with the masked vigilante. “He wouldn’t have left me here on my own.”

The Knight remained silent as he started walking them towards the designated hideout.

~*~

“Go to hell,” Stiles snapped at Scarecrow.

“If you won’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll use my preferred methods,” Scarecrow uttered with a smile in her voice. She placed the syringes of her gauntlet on display for Stiles to see. “The effects are more permanent this way, but much more fun to watch. You’ll be begging to tell me all that I want to know in a few minutes.”

Stiles glared at Scarecrow.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer I use this manner on your father,” Scarecrow offered.

Stiles’ grip on the wheelchair they had strapped him to tightened as he dug his fingernails into the armrests.

“We’ll save that for later,” Scarecrow smiled, bringing the needles closer to Stiles.

“Get the hell away from him!” The Eichen Knight demanded as he burst through the door to the interrogation room.

Stiles looked at the Knight. He saw how Scarecrow didn’t react to such an outburst. He was curious who was in control of the situation, and if he could play it to his advantage.

“He knows who Batman is,” Scarecrow simply stated, dragging the sharp edge of the needle against the skin of Stiles’ arm. She lightly laughed when Stiles flinched. “If you want to play with him instead, perhaps you should have left him somewhere more private.”

The Knight threw off the hold of the soldier that tried to grab him. He gripped the collar of the armored vest the soldier wore, easily slamming the man back into the wall as a demonstration of how serious he was.

“You seem attached,” Scarecrow started as she looked at the Knight.

“Get out,” the Knight demanded.

“Or?” Scarecrow pressed.

The Knight drew his sidearm, pointing the barrel directly between Scarecrow’s eyes. “I told you—step on my toes, and I’ll do what Batman never had the guts to do.”

“And if I call your bluff?” Scarecrow carefully asked.

The Knight slammed the soldier in his other grip into the wall once more, knocking him unconscious. He took a step towards Scarecrow, pressing the cold metal barrel against her forehead as he clicked the hammer back. “Have you ever seen me bluff?” He dared her.

Scarecrow remained silent before finally bending to the Knight’s command. She nodded for the soldier to follow her. She gestured for the soldier to pick up his fallen comrade, knowing that the Knight wouldn’t want him left there.

The Knight closed the door behind them, leaving him alone in the room with Stiles.

“Is this the part where you pretend to be the good cop?” Stiles flatly asked, glaring at the Knight’s back. He tried to keep his tremble hidden when the Knight reached up to the camera above the door, flicking the power switch off.

“There’d be no point to it,” the Knight answered, turning to face Stiles. “You were never the one to be tricked so easily.”

Stiles licked his lips out of nervous habit as he stared back at the Knight. “Why are you doing this? You seem to hate all of Gotham’s lowlifes. So why help Scarecrow?”

The Knight took a few steps closer to Stiles, leaning forward against the chair Scarecrow had been sitting in. “When you can’t get rid of all the rats yourself, you use one to root out the others.”

Stiles shook his head. “The police are innocent,” he argued.

“You’re blinded by the love and trust your father has for the men on his force,” the Knight countered.

“You don’t know me,” Stiles lowly stated. “Don’t presume to know how I feel.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Knight replied. “I know you more intimately than you know yourself.”

Stiles glared at the man.

“You’ll remain valiant, until the end,” the Knight continued. “Even when your rational side takes over and you tell yourself that Batman _couldn’t_ risk saving you—for the greater good of things.” The Knight moved around the chair, sitting down in front of Stiles. He leaned back in the chair, his legs spread as their knees brushed together. “And then you’ll realize that he’ll always choose the mission before anyone else. Because to Chris, that’s what is important.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong.”

The Knight leaned forward, propping his forearms against his thighs. He looked down at his armored gauntlets. “Chris Argent collects broken souls to use in his sacrifice for a better Beacon.” He looked up at Stiles. “He doesn’t care what happens to you, or Allison … or me. He never did.”

Stiles’ stomach started to twist. He clung to his rational side, desperate not to believe what he knew the evidence pointed to. “Don’t,” he weakly protested. “Don’t do this.” He closed his eyes, telling himself it wasn’t real—it _couldn’t_ be real.

The man he loved wouldn’t do this to him.

“Chris is good at playing the hero, but he’s not about saving the innocent, Stiles. He’s about punishing the guilty,” the Knight pressed. “You know it’s the truth.”

“No,” Stiles shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

The Knight reached up, fingers curling under his helmet’s edges, undoing the clasps. He let the helmet unfasten, easily twisting it out of it’s position. “Look me in the eye,” the Knight started, his voice scrambler disappearing as he lifted the helmet off his head. “And tell me Chris cared.”

“No,” Stiles weakly uttered, refusing to look up, his voice small and hurt. He heard Derek’s voice so often in his dreams, and his even less lucid moments after a drunken bender. He listened to Derek’s voice on their answering machine, over and over again. But even with that desire to hear it again, he wanted to convince himself that he wasn’t hearing it now.

“Stiles, look at me.”

Stiles stubbornly shook his head as he kept his eyes closed.

“Look at me and know the truth about all this.”

“The truth is that Derek Hale is dead!” Stiles yelled, his fingers digging down into the armrest. “You’re not him! I buried him after what the Joker did—I mourned him. For years!” He drew in a sharp breath, feeling as if his lungs were twisting—a panic gripping his chest. “The truth is I killed the Joker for what he did to Derek. I let him choke to death, gasping on his last words. And you’re not going to cheapen what I felt for Derek—what we had. I didn’t let the Joker, and I’m not going to let you.”

The chair creaked when the Knight leaned back. “What I am now doesn’t change what happened.”

Stiles shook his head. “Why?” He weakly questioned as he opened his eyes, staring down at the Knight’s boots. “Why would you do this? Why didn’t you come home?”

“I’m never going back to the manor,” the Knight replied.

Stiles shook his head again. “ _Home_. You could have come home— _to me_ ,” he corrected. “Instead you … you let me bury you. You let your sisters think …”

The chair’s legs scraped across the floor, an audible cue that the Knight had risen from it.

Stiles tried not to flinch when a gloved hand reached up to cup his chin in a firm grasp. He kept his eyes shut, unsure what he would see there in front of him.

“Look at me,” the familiar voice softly instructed, as if it Stiles had a choice to ignore it.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes, taking in the appearance of the man kneeling in front of him—a stranger who wore the face of someone dear.

Derek’s features were worn, as if he stopped caring about anything but the pain he crawled through. His beard was trimmed short, small speckles of grey littered throughout it—more prominent than the last day Stiles saw him alive. His hair was a little longer, short enough to be maintained but long enough to suggest that Derek still found the task of maintenance tedious. He stared at Stiles, waiting for a response.

There was a burned ‘J’ in the side of Derek’s cheek, the length of his beard doing little to hide the scarred tissue.

Stiles remembered the videos Peter had sent them. The way Peter mocked Derek, his persona completely twisted from the uncle he had once been—there was nothing but the Joker left.

Stiles had to look away from the footage as Peter burned the ‘J’ into Derek’s face—the muffled cry of pain from Derek was enough to haunt Stiles’ dreams for months. He remembered how cold and hollow he felt when he saw the footage of Peter shooting Derek point blank, the firing of the gun jolting Stiles in his wheelchair. He begged Allison to tell him Derek was alive—that it was just another sick game for the Joker to torment them with. He didn’t believe her until she brought Derek’s body back to the Batcave.

“Why didn’t you come home?” Stiles weakly questioned, his voice breaking.

“You don’t know what the Joker did to me,” Derek flatly answered, his voice hitching some. “He hollowed me out—in the end, there was nothing left in me to bring home.”

“Your body,” Stiles countered. “We buried you.”

“It’s Beacon,” Derek simply answered. “Even I don’t know how to answer that.”

Stiles shook his head. “You’re not him.”

“When this is over, go dig up my grave,” Derek replied. “You’ll see I’m not lying.”

“No,” Stiles argued. “You’re not Derek Hale—not anymore.” He looked up at Derek, anger and pain covering his features. “You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

Derek quietly observed Stiles, wondering if he only cared because those words were coming from Stiles. It was the first time in a while that he felt anything.

“Batman went to the Commissioner,” a soldier stated, voice breaking over the intercom’s static.

“We’ll intercept Stilinski on their way out of the Clock Tower,” another soldier answered. “He should be easy pickings.”

Stiles tensed when he heard the men talking over Derek’s radio. He stared after Derek when he noticed that he started to stand.

Derek hooked his helmet back into place. “I want the Commissioner brought in _alive_ , you morons,” he barked out the order through the voice scrambler. “If anything happens to him, you don’t have to be afraid of what Batman will do after I’m through with you.” He hesitated as he turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles stared at the helmet, seeing the projected screen lighting up and blocking Derek face from view. He wondered if it was all for show—a last ditch attempt to show that part of Derek still cared.

Derek turned from Stiles, leaving the room before he said anything he might regret. “Anyone touches him, and they answer directly to me. Got it?” He snapped at the soldiers that were crowded outside the room.

“But Scarecrow said—”

“I don’t give a fuck what Scarecrow said,” Derek angrily countered the soldier’s protest, standing to his full height as he pushed into the soldier’s space.

The soldiers all visibly backed away.

“Anyone touches him, Scarecrow included, they’ll wish they were dead,” Derek threatened as he secured the door behind him.

~*~

"Allison," Lydia called her name again, wishing she would reconsider all of this.

Allison didn’t look up at Lydia as she continued to dig the shovel into the ground. She was already close to the coffin, the dirt seeming looser than she thought it would be. That gave her some hope. She needed proof.

“Allison, this isn’t going to change anything,” Lydia stated. “Even if Derek had been alive when we buried him—which he wasn’t—there is no way he could have gotten out of there.”

“He knew me, Lydia,” Allison huffed out, turning to look at Lydia as she stopped shoveling for a moment. “He knew my fighting style. He knew my nickname. He _knew_.” She shook her head. “I hate doing this, but if it’s true, then I need to know.” She continued her shoveling.

Lydia moved to get down into the grave with Allison, attempting to physically stop her when she heard a clunk of the shovel hitting the coffin. “This is insane!” She yelled at her, grabbing her arm. “Derek Hale is dead!”

Allison didn’t answer Lydia, her gaze staring down at the coffin lid. More importantly, staring at the wide shattered cover of the coffin laying under their feet.

Lydia stared over Allison’s shoulder. “That’s … not possible.”

Allison turned to kneel, her hands shoving the dirt away, revealing the coffin’s contents to be nothing.

~*~

Derek wasn’t surprised that John came for the soldiers directly, not when the man discovered that Stiles was taken. He remained leaning against the crate as he watched his men secure John’s restraints.

“Going after my son isn’t going to give you anything,” John stated in an angered tone.

“Scarecrow wanted him,” one of the soldiers countered. “Made him a good enough target.”

“Plus, he wasn’t that hard to catch,” the other soldier laughed.

A shot rang out.

John flinched at the sound before looking at the soldier who had just spoken, watching as the man yelled in pain and held his bleeding knee. He looked at the Eichen Knight, watching the man holstering his pistol.

“Get him out of here,” the Knight blandly ordered.

John wasn’t surprised that the remaining men scurried to gather the wounded man. He turned his attention back to the Knight, trying to understand how someone could carelessly shoot his own subordinate.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Derek stated through the voice scrambler, knowing that John was already formulating an opinion of him.

“Like what?” John asked, relaxing back into his chair.

“Like I’m one of them,” Derek stated as he gestured towards the city below them. “They’re animals, Commissioner.” He turned to look out on the city, able to see the thugs and criminals wreaking havoc on the buildings and streets below. “They’ve been allowed to roam free here for too long. They don’t even cower in the dark anymore—scrambling to find some psychotic lunatic to lead them on a blood-crazed crime spree.” He moved to lean against the crate once more, his hands clenched into fists as he pressed his knuckles against the crate’s surface. “They don’t deserve to live.”

“And you think you’re different?” John dared to ask. “You sound just like the others—Scarecrow, Two-Face, Poison Ivy,” he released a scoff, shaking his head. “Beacon’s suffered through people like you before, and this radicalized _cleansing_ you think you’re doing isn’t going to change a damn thing.”

The Knight stood up to his full height. He turned to look at John. “Then ask yourself the real question: what good has Batman done for Beacon, John?”

John looked up at the Knight’s helmet, furrowing his brow in annoyance. “You’re going to blame him, too?”

“Batman hasn’t taken responsibility for his actions,” the Knight angrily countered. “Not once has he been held accountable for what he’s been afraid to do this whole time. He created this chaos around us, Commissioner—he made Beacon’s criminals a rallying point.”

“And you think you’re different than him?” John demanded. “You’ve walked into Beacon without any prior understanding—you’ve put all of this under a microscope, and now you’ve taken my _son_ as a bargaining chip.”

“Stiles isn’t a bargaining chip,” Derek firmly answered.

“Don’t act like you care,” John angrily uttered. “You dragged my only child into your vendetta. He’s in the line of fire because—”

“Stiles is safe!” Derek shouted back, the voice scrambler cracking out the forceful words. “He’s always been safer with me than he ever was with Batman.”

John’s features twisted slightly before falling nearly expressionless. He stared at the Knight, a sudden realization dawning over him. He hesitated, thinking the impossible couldn’t truly be happening. He thought of the nights Stiles woke screaming after the Joker had sent the videos. He couldn’t erase his own memories of holding Stiles’ shaking body as his son sobbed and grieved when Derek’s body turned up.

John had been the one to pull Stiles away from Derek’s lifeless corpse, begging him to let go. He had never been so scared or lost as a parent when Stiles shut down and threw himself back over Derek’s breathless chest. He couldn’t do much but watch Stiles sob over Derek.

It was a conversation he had never had with Batman before. He had to take the statement, ruling Derek's killing as a result of the boy's own vigilantism. He hated himself for signing off on Derek's death certificate, knowing that the boy would still be alive if the Joker had been dealt with accordingly.

“Derek?”

The Knight didn’t react to John calling his name.

“Derek—son … take off the helmet,” John quickly uttered.

“Don’t think you can make assumptions, John,” Derek answered, helmet still covering his features. “Derek Hale is dead.”

“Not if you’re walking around right now,” John quickly countered. “Don’t you dare try and tell me that you’re gone—”

“He’s _dead_ , Commissioner,” Derek sharply uttered. “You and Stiles will come to terms with that by the end of tonight.”


	2. Chapter 2

Derek silently entered the briefing room, aware of the look Stiles was still giving him. He kept his helmet on, knowing that Scarecrow was trying to find out what his relationship with Stiles was. If she saw how he looked at him, she’d figure it out before he could cover it up—he wasn’t about to let someone else hurt Stiles to get to him.

Stiles looked at the gun Derek offered him. “Is this a joke?” He asked, looking up at Derek.

“Scarecrow wants Batman to think you’re dead,” Derek simply stated.

“And I’m to go out in a blaze of glory?” Stiles nearly snapped. “I can’t exactly break myself out of here.” He tapped his hands against the wheels of his wheelchair. “Wheelchairs make for shitty getaway vehicles,” he sarcastically uttered.

Derek moved to lean against the table in front of Stiles. He hated how Stiles leaned away from him. “She wants to use the toxin on you,” he explained.

Stiles covered his fear up quickly as he looked at Derek. “And you care?” He coldly asked.

“She’s agreed to dose Batman instead. I’ve made sure the clip is filled with blanks,” Derek simply put, offering the gun to Stiles once more.

“Fuck you,” Stiles snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Look—”

“Take off the stupid helmet, Derek,” Stiles angrily stated, looking back at Derek. “You’re not scary, and the voice scrambler is annoying to listen to.”

Derek rolled his eyes, forgetting how exasperating Stiles could be. He acquiesced to Stiles’ request, though, removing the helmet. He dropped the helmet onto the table, running his gloved hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it.

“You need a haircut,” Stiles commented as he took in Derek’s features. He wasn’t sure how he should feel, but he knew his anger overpowered a lot of his other emotions at the moment.

“I tried doing it myself a few months ago,” Derek offered. “Didn’t end well.”

Stiles softly snorted in amusement. “At least you learned to trim your beard.”

Derek ran his gloved fingertips over his beard.

A silence fell between them, so many things left unspoken for too long that neither one of them knew where to start.

“Earlier,” Derek started, daring to break the silence. “You said that you killed Peter.”

Stiles remained silent, his hands tightening into fists as he pressed them down against his knees.

“Everyone thinks that Batman did it,” Derek continued. “But we both know better than that,” he concluded.

“Batman was going to heal him,” Stiles finally stated. “He was going to help him, _again_. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Was it revenge?” Derek asked.

“It was justice,” Stiles answered. “He took you from me. He— he tortured you for months— tortured us with those videos.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t going to let him get away with everything again.”

Derek took Stiles’ hand in his own, a little surprised when Stiles didn’t pull away.

Stiles looked at Derek, slowly tightening his hold on Derek’s hand, not wanting to let go.

Derek almost tore his hand out of Stiles’ grip, feeling his resolve slowly draining. Instead, he turned Stiles’ hand in his grip, pressing the gun’s handle into Stiles’ palm. “After tonight, none of them are going to matter anymore.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “So, to stop them, you’re going to kill everyone?”

Derek held Stiles’ hand in his own, looking at the loose grip Stiles held on the gun. “I’m going to do what Chris never had the guts to do in the first place,” he lowly stated.

“Derek,” Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand, stopping him from pulling away. “Don’t do this.”

Derek allowed Stiles to hold onto him, staring down at their hands held together.

“We can go home,” Stiles pressed. “Just you, and me. We can walk away.”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t get to walk away, Stiles. Not after what he did—what I’ve done.” He pulled out of Stiles’ hold, moving to leave him behind.

~*~

"I can’t get ahold of Batman," Allison stated into her comm as she drove through the armed streets. She wove her bike through the barricades, keeping an eye on the criminals that were rushing each other.

“Neither can I,” Lydia answered. “I’ve been running tests and searches on what could have resurrected Derek, and there isn’t much.”

“Whatever you can get, Lyds,” Allison answered. “I’m headed off to track down the Commissioner, hopefully I’ll find a lead that way.”

“I’m sure that Derek’s keeping both John and Stiles safe from Jennifer, especially after her little show went south,” Lydia replied. She had been so glad when Stiles hadn’t pulled the trigger despite the fear gas and Scarecrow’s coaching.

“But he needs help keeping them safe from himself,” Allison answered, revving her bike’s engine as she sped up through the streets.

~*~

Derek stood beside Scarecrow in the control room, a tightness growing in his chest as he watched the camera monitor. His gaze was concentrated on Stiles, his hands itching to draw his pistol and end Scarecrow—to end the chaos tonight.

Stiles turned the pistol in his hands, remembering what Derek told him. He trusted Derek—strangely. Rationally, he knew that he was insane for trusting Derek, especially after everything that happened tonight. He wanted to know that the Derek he loved was still here, and that maybe they could move beyond tonight.

The fear gas burned Stiles’ lungs when Scarecrow released them. The green smoke vanished Chris from Stiles’ sight.

Chris slammed his armored fists against the glass. He knew that the glass wasn’t going to shatter—not how he wanted it to. He couldn’t see Stiles through the smoke now, but he had seen the gun resting in Stiles’ lap. “Stiles! Focus. Don’t believe it!”

Stiles kept his eyes shut until the stench of the gas disappeared. He blinked several times before he could see clearly. He stared at Chris, seeing the terror through the masked cowl.

Scarecrow leaned forward, her face close to the screen as she observed Stiles do nothing.

“Stiles—”

“Get out of here,” Stiles quickly instructed Chris, realizing that the fear gas didn’t work. “It’s a trap.”

Chris moved towards the valve locking Stiles into the cell.

“Go!” Stiles yelled at him. “Scarecrow wants you dead—this was a set up. Get out of here.”

Chris continued to try and turn the valve. “Stiles, I can get you—”

“I’m safe,” Stiles countered.

Chris looked at Stiles. “Stiles, the Knight—”

“I know,” Stiles angrily answered. “I know, Batman. Now get out of here.”

Derek released a soft breath. “Looks like it doesn’t work with everyone,” he gruffly stated. He turned to leave Scarecrow behind, determined to collect Stiles himself now that Chris left.

“You did this, didn’t you?” Scarecrow accused Derek as she whirled around on him.

Derek scoffed. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“You know him!” Scarecrow yelled, her arm thrashing out to hit the monitor screen off the desk.

Derek turned to look at her.

“You’ve known him the whole time. And you gave him something!” Scarecrow angrily shouted. She turned to the soldier near her. “Dose him again.”

Derek turned his body towards Scarecrow. “A higher dose can cause nerve and sensory damage,” he stated the obvious.

Scarecrow didn’t answer Derek. “I said dose him again,” she darkly demanded of the solider.

Derek drew his sidearm, firing off a warning shot at the console. He aimed his gun at the soldier. “I’ll put one through your head before you even touch the desk,” he calmly threatened.

Scarecrow turned to look at Derek.

Derek drew his other sidearm, aiming at Scarecrow. “We’ve come to the end of our arrangement, Dr. Blake,” he uttered. He turned his back on the control room, heading down into cell where Stiles was.

Stiles looked at Derek, surprised when he saw it was him. “There is still fear toxin,” he softly spoke. He looked down at the gun in his lap, picking it up before tossing it onto the ground. “Sorry to ruin the show,” he uttered.

“I knew you’d be fine,” Derek replied.

“Then the blanks were for…?” Stiles questioned.

Derek looked at the gun as he moved to lean against the glass before looking at Stiles. “To please Scarecrow,” he admitted.

Stiles looked over at the camera he knew was sending a videofeed somewhere. “As much as I like to hear that, you have to leave, too.”

Derek remained silent as he stared at Stiles.

Stiles barely laughed. “You probably have that dumb look on your face.”

“I don’t have a dumb look on my face,” Derek replied a little too quickly.

“Sure,” Stiles answered with a smile. “But honestly, you have to go get my dad.”

Derek moved to stand up straight.

“I know you have him,” Stiles admitted. “You need to keep him safe from her.”

“I can bring you to him—”

“There is still fear toxin in here,” Stiles replied, gesturing to the fogginess in the chamber. “I really don’t think I could handle you being exposed to fear toxin.”

Derek remained silent, turning to look at the gauge monitoring the air purity. The red 73% continued to burn brightly through the digital screen.

“Derek, go,” Stiles stated.

“I’m not leaving you again,” Derek replied, looking at Stiles.

“As strong as you look, big guy, I know you have shadows in your mind,” Stiles softly stated, releasing a breathy sigh. He looked at Derek. “I’m scared being left here, but I’m also terrified that you’re going to come in here and I’ll have to see every fear you have.”

Derek stepped closer to the glass, reaching his hand up to touch the divider.

“Please,” Stiles softly begged.

Derek pressed the top of his helmet against the glass. “I’m coming back.”

“I know,” Stiles’ voice croaked. “I think I always knew.”

~*~

“Are you okay?” Derek asked John as he moved to kneel in front of him.

John stared at Derek, almost as if he was skeptical of what he was seeing— _who_ he knew was under that helmet. “How should I answer that?”

Derek turned his gaze away from John, looking to the few soldiers that were securing the room. He waited for them to be far enough away. “Stiles is safe,” he offered in a small voice, like a child trying to cozy up to a parent.

“Is he?” John asked.

“I wouldn’t hurt him,” Derek replied, looking down at the mobile device in his hand, scrolling through the data to determine where Chris was heading next.

“No, you just broke his heart,” John countered.

Derek paused his actions and looked up at John.

“You let him think you died,” John firmly stated. “None of us were the same after Peter sent us the footage. But Stiles … he was hit the worst. And then now you left him to figure out that you’ve been alive this whole time he’s mourned you—”

“I wasn’t,” Derek answered.

John furrowed his eyebrows.

Derek shook his head, resting an armored gauntlet against the curve of his chest—the spot the bullet tore through when Peter shot him at point blank range. “I did die,” he admitted, knowing he knew at least that much—though he never had it fully explained to him. “I remember being shot—dying, actually. It happened so fast. With every second I bled out, the darker it all got, and the only thing I could think about was Stiles.” He closed his eyes, pulling up the memory of pushing open the apartment door to discover Stiles’ limp body strewed across the floor, blood pooling around him. “How much agony Stiles must have been in as he bled out on the floor of our apartment, waiting for me to finally get there.” He stood from his crouch, pushing the memory away.

“What happened after that?” John asked.

Derek stopped his pacing. “A lot,” he simply answered.

“Why didn’t you come to us?” John pressed.

“I couldn’t,” Derek argued, placing his head in his hands as he tried to physically wipe the memory of the agony his body went through. He could only remember fractures of his body rehabilitating itself, his organs coming back online, his muscles and bones reanimating themselves. He could still taste the goop-like fluid the Lazarus pit forced into his lungs. He didn’t know if he should hate or thank the hooded figures looming around the Lazarus pit, eyes all concentrated on him as he emerged alive.

“You could always come home, Derek,” John stated.

Derek looked up at John. “Stiles said something like that,” he confessed.

“That’s because it’s the truth,” John answered.

Derek’s features fell, as if he was considering such an offer. He ultimately shook his head. “I … can’t.”

“Your sisters practically live with us,” John offered, hoping to sway Derek with that offer. “What’s one more Hale, huh?” He uttered with a soft smile.

Derek shook his head. “I have to finish this,” he stated.

“Finish what?” John asked.

“Punishing them,” Derek replied. He turned his head at the sound of panicked gunfire, knowing that Chris was closing in on him. He stood up, maneuvering the helmet back into place.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Derek,” John stated, wishing he could get through to him. “You know that, don’t you, son?”

Derek half turned back to John. “I’m sorry for what happened to Stiles,” he said instead of answering John’s question. “I never meant for him to get hurt because of me.”

“What the Joker did, he did because Stiles is my son,” John countered.

“No,” Derek corrected him. “No, the Joker shot Stiles because I loved him. He knew what Stiles means to me.” He shook his head.

“Why would he care?” John asked, thinking he could point out the flaw in Derek’s logic.

“Because the Joker was my uncle,” Derek answered. “He wanted to hurt me because he could. He just got lucky that Stiles happened to be Batman’s Robin at the time.”

John continued to look at Derek. “And you blame yourself for what your uncle chose to do,” he paused. “Why?”

Derek looked up at John.

“You didn’t choose to have Stiles be put in harm’s way,” John rationalized. “From the little that Stiles would tell me, you tried to go after the Joker, but Batman wouldn’t let you.”

“I wanted him dead,” Derek confessed. “He just kept hurting people—killing them with glee. He stopped being my uncle years ago, but Chris always sees the potential _good_ in the worst people, and he let so many pay the price for letting Joker live. And then Stiles …” Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see it—Stiles sprawled out on the floor of their apartment, blood seeping into the carpet beneath him. He pressed his hands into his helmet, roughly hitting the metal in quick jabs to get rid of the images. “And I couldn’t even protect him!”

“Derek, it wasn’t up to you to protect Stiles,” John quickly stated, trying to latch onto that moment of lucidity.

“I should have,” Derek answered. “And I can—once this night is through,” he answered.

“Think about this,” John quickly stated. “If you kill those left in Beacon, you’ll be driving an even further wedge between you and Stiles.”

“There is no one left in Beacon who is innocent, John,” Derek hollowly replied.

“Do you think Blake is going to stop there?” John incredulously asked. “You’re smarter than that, Derek. Even if there are no more innocence left in Beacon, there is still the rest of the world that you are opening up to her madness.”

Derek paused, turning to look back at John as he teetered close to the edge of the platform.

“Stiles is a part of that world, Derek, even if you don’t want to be,” John finally stated. “You left him once, are you going to do it again?”

“Stiles is … safe,” Derek weakly stated, the voice scrambler practically distorting his words.

“Stiles is safe with _you_ ,” John corrected Derek. “I don’t trust that madwoman with my son.” He waited a moment before adding, “Do you?”

Derek turned his head to look in the direction he knew Chris was coming from. He had moments to get into place and prepare the trap he’s been engineering for more than a year. But he knew John was right—Scarecrow didn’t care about what happened to Stiles, and he was certain she had something planned for Stiles behind his back. “Shit,” he cursed, turning and taking a confident step towards John as he started to undo the older man’s restraints. “We’ll have a few minutes to get you out before they notice. Then we can get back to Stiles before Scarecrow—”

“Get away from him,” Batman’s voice broke off Derek’s words.

Derek’s actions slowed, dying off completely. It was as if Chris’ voice acted as a trigger.

“Don’t—” John started, wishing he could pull Derek back to that small moment they shared.

Derek looked at Chris, unsurprised to find him standing on the platform with them.

“Let him, and Stiles, go—they have nothing to do with this,” Chris started.

“Funny,” Derek lowly laughed. “You didn’t feel that way when you put them in the Joker’s path.”

Chris’ solemn features faltered some at the mention of Peter. “Who are you?” He demanded.

John looked at Batman, his own features confused by Batman’s question.

“You really don’t know,” Derek bitterly concluded. “I don’t know why I expected you to know.” Derek’s helmet lifted, the machine’s small wheels hissing out as they rearranged the helmet to reveal Derek’s face. “I’m hurt, Chris,” he emotionlessly stated as he aimed his gun at Batman.

“Derek,” Chris barely uttered. “You’re dead. I watched you … the Joker sent us the footage,” he confessed.

Derek released an unsteady scoff. “I wouldn’t believe that if it wasn’t for Stiles and John saying the same thing.”

Chris took a step towards Derek, halting when Derek took a step back. “Derek, what Joker did—”

“It wasn’t any worse than what he did to Stiles,” Derek answered. “And you couldn’t even avenge him, so why would you care?” He angrily demanded.

“I’m _sorry_ , Derek, but a lot more has happened than you know,” Chris urgently explained.

“How long did you wait?” Derek pressed.

“For what?” Chris uncertainly pressed.

“How long did you wait before you moved Stiles into another role?” Derek demanded, taking a few steps towards Chris. “How many times did you put him in harm’s way?”

“He wanted to keep working,” Chris defended himself. “You think we all didn’t know why? We _knew_ he wanted to get revenge for you—but I never thought he’d kill.”

“He did what you couldn’t,” Derek countered.

“Listen to yourself, Derek,” Chris earnestly pressed. “You don’t know what you’re doing—you put Stiles in danger.”

“That’s the only mistake I’ve made tonight,” Derek agreed with Chris on that remark alone. “You always told me that if I focused on what I wanted, I could achieve it.” He stalked towards Chris, pressing the gun barrel under Chris’ jaw. “And what I want is you dead.”

“Derek,” John interrupted them. “Derek, please, Stiles is what matters,” he urged.

Derek’s motions hesitated before he turned to look at John.

Chris took his opportunity. He hit Derek’s hand, casting the gun away before swiftly knocking his helmet into Derek’s.

Derek staggered back some, surprised by Chris’ boldness. He grabbed his helmet, tearing it away from his head when he felt the sparks igniting. He dropped his helmet when he noticed it was dented, figuring that Chris must have evaluated it for weaknesses during their past few encounters. He looked back at Chris.

“I don’t need this anymore,” Derek huffed. “I don’t need _you_.” He produced a slender canister from his utility belt, tossing it at Chris.

When Chris grabbed the object Derek lobbed at him, he realized too late as it started to smoke that it was just a distraction. He discarded the canister, knowing Derek would be gone when the smoke cleared.

John released a sigh of relief when he realized Derek had left, knowing that Stiles had a chance once Derek got there.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” John simply answered. “You know he went to confront Scarecrow, right?” He asked Chris, standing to fix the disheveled state of his suit.

“What?” Chris nearly demanded. “Why would he—”

“Stiles,” John replied, looking at Chris. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion when Chris didn’t make a move to respond.

Chris shook his head in disbelief. “The Knight put Stiles in the middle of—”

“Chris,” John sharply stated his name, catching the man’s attention. “It’s Derek,” he stated the obvious. “He would never hurt Stiles.”

“Derek’s dead,” Chris angrily stated, still wishing to deny even what his eyes knew. “Whoever that was—”

“I don’t know how, but he’s alive now,” John corrected him. “Whatever it was that brought him back messed with his head. He’s torn between getting revenge against you, and … protecting Stiles.”

“Derek Hale’s body is buried in Beacon Memorial Cemetery,” Chris rationalized.

“It’s him,” John tried to get Chris to accept the truth. “He said something about a Lazarus Pit.”

Chris froze. “They wouldn’t … ” He turned when he heard the crash of something breaking through one of the barriers.

Allison turned the motorbike, tires burning rubber against the asphalt as she finally came to a halt. “Batman!” She loudly yelled, in a hurry to find her father to unveil the truth.

“Night Wing,” Chris started as he moved to the balcony’s edge.

Allison looked up at her father as she disembarked from her bike. “It’s him,” she uttered, her voice wavering some.

Chris turned his gaze towards John, his disbelief slowly fading away into acceptance when John’s expression did not change.

“If the League of Shadows is behind resurrecting Derek, we have more to worry about than just Scarecrow,” Chris started, taking his turn about the room. He inspected one of the unconscious men’s radio equipment, searching for some sort of trail.

Allison used her grapple to reach the balcony her father and John were on. She reached her hand out to John, offering up the item she had clutched in her gloved hand. “I found this—at Derek’s grave.”

John hesitated as he looked at Allison’s hand. He reached out to accept the item, unsure what to expect. He wasn’t expecting Claudia’s charm bracelet. “When did you—how did you find this?” He asked, shock covering his features.

Allison looked at her father before looking back at John. “When the Knight took Stiles from the clock tower, I thought I recognized him,” she started to explain. “Lydia did an analysis of the footage, and we had a 89% match for Derek. I had to know if it was him, so I …” she shook her head, ashamed to admit that she technically desecrated a grave. “I dug up Derek’s grave. There was just a broken casket, and that bracelet.”

John turned the bracelet in his hands, inspecting its familiar features. He gently touched the different charms, accounting for each of them. He recalled how every one of them had been added to Claudia’s collection.

The last one to be added was the one Stiles had begged John to get for Claudia’s last birthday. It was a small golden whistle, a call back to Claudia’s favorite film—one Stiles had watched dozens of times with her as they sat in the hospital room waiting for treatments to save Claudia’s life.

_If you need me, just whistle._

John had joked with Stiles that all his son had to do was whistle, and Derek would be there. He never knew what had happened to the bracelet—that Stiles buried it with Derek.

“Derek would have been a pawn to the League, something to hold over my head for rejecting them,” Chris started, looking at Allison.

Allison sighed, shaking her head. “The League of Shadows doesn’t care who they get to lead them.” She looked up at Chris. “If they thought they could get Derek to lead them—use whatever you taught him, they might have seen the potential in resurrecting him. Especially if he’s willing to kill.”

“None of that matters anymore,” John interrupted them both. He tightened his grip on Claudia’s bracelet. “What matters is that the Eichen Knight is Derek Hale—and right now Scarecrow has Stiles. I don’t think he can beat Scarecrow on his own.”

Allison looked at Chris. “I’m ready to put the past away,” she offered.

Chris sighed, turning his attention towards where he knew Derek had fled. He looked at his comms, radioing the Bat Cave. “Can you trace the Knight’s radio signal?”

Lydia’s laugh echoed out from the speaker. “I’ve already pinned a location,” she smugly answered.

~*~

It was a stand off on the roof, and Stiles was the risk in the middle of it all.

Scarecrow knew they were coming, and she didn’t care if there were two caped crusaders. It made no difference to her. She knew they wouldn’t risk Stiles while he was so close to her.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles snapped at Blake. “So go to hell!”

Scarecrow laughed as she grabbed ahold of the wheelchair’s armrests. “Your Knight isn’t here to protect you anymore,” she stated with a laugh, slowly wheeling Stiles backwards towards the edge of the building, despite Stiles’ attempts to stop her. She slightly pressed the wheels over the edge, leaving them to precariously teeter, her grip being the only thing to stop Stiles from falling.

“Look at you, Stiles,” Scarecrow began. “Surrounded by men who love you, but always seem to fail you. Your precious Derek Hale failed you that night in your apartment. Batman failed you when he allowed us to capture you. And even your father has failed you now.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles lowly cursed at her.

“So many people around you die,” Scarecrow continued, ignoring Stiles’ outburst. “Friends. Family. Lovers.” She could hear the scratching of her needles against the wheelchair, itching to properly dose Stiles at least once—she knew he’d be beautiful to watch scream. “First your mother. Then Derek. I wonder who was going to be next—your father, maybe?”

Stiles angrily blinked away his tears, wishing he could tear Scarecrow apart himself.

“It’s okay to be afraid, Stiles,” Scarecrow stated as she leaned in close. “What you have to do is face it. Sometimes, you need to … _let go_ ,” she nearly whispered as she released her hold on Stiles’ wheelchair.

“Stiles!” John yelled as he helplessly watched his son fall off the ledge.

Stiles released a breathy cry of surprise as the weightlessness he felt swirling through his body as the wheelchair fell away from him. A sudden emptiness hollowed out in his head as he rationally accepted that this was his death. He almost thought it was poetic, in a way—how he craved to be able to fly through the air again like he used to. He just didn’t think it would be like this.

Stiles was disoriented from how often his body had flipped through the air, his legs acting as dead weights. It happened suddenly, as an armored body grabbed hold of him, two bodies freefalling towards the ground in a graceless dance. The impact felt like being hit by one of Allison’s roundhouse kicks—it left him partially winded and knowing he was bruised in more than one spot.

Stiles groaned, “I never want to do that again.”

“Not my idea of fun either,” Derek replied.

Stiles quickly turned his head to look at Derek, a sorrowful expression catching his features. “Are you hurt?” He asked, knowing that Derek positioned them so that Derek’s own body would take the brunt of the impact.

Derek moved first before easing Stiles into a sitting position against one of the barricades they landed close to. “Not really,” he offered, checking over Stiles’ legs. He was worried that they may have sustained even the smallest of injury.

“Good,” Stiles replied. He punched Derek’s shoulder as hard as he could, yelping out in pain when the reminder of the metal armor bruised his knuckles.

Derek looked up at Stiles.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles snapped at him. “You deserve much more than me punching your shoulder, and you know it.”

“Stiles—”

“I’m still mad, Derek,” Stiles continued. “I’m allowed to be mad.”

Derek remained silent for a moment. “You are,” he confirmed. “But right now, we have other things to worry about.” He gestured towards the incoming patrol of soldiers Scarecrow had ordered to confirm Stiles’ death.

“We have to go,” Stiles added, looking at Derek.

“They’ll shoot once they see us,” Derek countered. He drew his side arm, checking how much ammo he had left.

“You can’t shoot all of them,” Stiles reasoned.

“I can scare the other half,” Derek replied, placing his helmet back on.

“Derek—” Stiles started, reaching his hand out to grab Derek’s arm. “Let’s just go this way,” he harshly whispered, gesturing towards the alleyway behind them.

Derek was prepared to argue, ultimately silenced once he saw the way Stiles arched his eyebrows. He wasn’t going to argue with Stiles’ logic, not when he knew he already was walking a thin line with Stiles’ patience. He sighed, holstering his gun as he accepted Stiles’ solution. “Okay, we’ll do it your way.”

Stiles wouldn’t admit it, but he was smug that he got his way.

Derek picked Stiles up once more, nestling him in his arms safely before making a quick getaway into the alley.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek slowed his steps towards the police station. He saw all the men on the guard, knowing that they were on high alert with the criminals still on the prowl.

“They’re not going to open the gate for anyone,” Stiles explained. He looked at Derek. “If you leave me here, I could—”

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek replied, his steps not halting as he walked over to the police on guard.

Stiles made an attempt to struggle. “Derek—”

“Freeze!” One of the cops shouted, training their guns on Derek and Stiles.

“Put your guns down, it’s Stiles!” Parrish yelled at the men. He rushed from the desk when he heard the radio crackle with the warning that an armed soldier was approaching with a civilian in their arms.

“But sir, that’s the Eichen Knight,” another cop argued.

“I said stand down,” Parrish sharply stated. He moved towards Stiles and Derek. “Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles kept his arm around Derek’s shoulders, his hand gripping hard against Derek’s metal breastplate. Petulantly, like a child, he didn’t want Derek to let go. “I’m fine,” he uttered.

“Let’s get you inside,” Parrish ushered them to follow him into the police station.

Derek walked passed the guards, ignoring the glares and evident fear from the cops surrounding them. He followed after Parrish, aware of Stiles’ grip on him.

Stiles held onto Derek when he tried to sit him down in the wheelchair Parrish offered.

“Stiles—”

“If I let you go, I know what’s going to happen,” Stiles sharply stated.

Derek sighed, looking up at Parrish. “Is John back yet?” He asked, not at all fazed by how shocked Parrish looked by Derek’s question.

“Batman radioed that they’d be back soon,” Parrish offered.

Derek looked at Stiles, shuffle his weight a little. “You know that this is going to happen, whether you let go of me or not,” he softly explained to Stiles.

Stiles ignored the burning in his throat, the prickle of unshed tears spreading through his nose.

“Stiles, we’re not going to put him in a cell with the others,” Parrish offered in an attempt to placate Stiles.

“He isn’t going to hurt anyone,” Stiles quickly stated.

“He already has,” another cop angrily countered.

Stiles heard the resounding affirmations coming from the others, and it only upset him more.

Derek forced Stiles to sit down in the wheelchair, practically tearing himself away from the younger man. He held up his hands when the cops reacted to his movements.

“Derek!” Stiles yelled, unable to do anything as he watched Derek being physically slammed against the wall as he was restrained. He dried to move the wheelchair forward, following after the cops who started to lead Derek down the hallway.

Parrish touched Stiles’ shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. He watched as Derek disappeared down the hallway. “I’ll make sure he’s separated from the others, and that no one hurts him.”

Stiles’ grip on the wheelchair’s handles tightened, tears burning his eyes. “Where is my father?” He angrily demanded.

~*~

Parrish made sure he was the one assigned to processing Derek. He closed the door to the others.

Derek was standing by the window, his gaze focused on the landscape visible through the foggy glass and bars.

“I need you to remove your armor,” Parrish explained to Derek. “Before we can fully process you,” he elaborated as he placed a clean set of Beacon PD sweatpants and shirt on the table.

Derek’s movements were slow as he turned towards Parrish. He started to undo the metal clasps of his metal armor reinforcements, beginning with his gauntlets. He calmly placed his discarded gauntlets on the table, his gaze turning to the observation window.

Derek wasn’t sure who was exactly behind the glass, but he could only hope Stiles wasn’t.

Parrish couldn’t help staring when he saw the scars covering Derek’s chest.

Sharp gashes ran across his stomach, jagged marks moving into his chest. There were three small circles concentrated on his left pectoral—all that was left of the wounds the coroner’s report accredited cause of death.

There were even marks running across Derek’s arms, the raised skin prevented hair from growing back in some spots. Those scars were worn, as if they were from another lifetime, completely unlike the scars on Derek’s torso.

Derek stepped out of his combat digs, dumping the canvas bodysuit onto the table as he used his free hand to grab the clothes Parrish had offered.

“Do you—” Parrish stopped himself when he caught sight of the scars on Derek’s back.

Derek looked at Parrish as he pulled the sweatpants on. He was unfazed by Parrish’s sudden silence.

“Medical attention,” Parrish finally uttered. He cleared his throat. “Do you need any medical attention?” He finally asked.

“I’m fine,” Derek answered as he moved to pull the shirt on over his head.

Parrish made sure to compile all of Derek’s armor, knowing that they would have to inventory it for later. He stared at Derek as the other man calmly sat down at the desk, wondering if there was bound to be any reaction from him. He was interested in knowing why Derek was so calm with everything—why a man capable of beating Batman would hand himself over so willingly.

In reality, Parrish knew the reason why.

~*~

John was standing on the other side of the observation window. His eyes focused on Derek. He was still in disbelief that Derek was alive.

John’s stomach twisted when he saw Derek’s scars. He had wondered, more often than he wished, what happened to Derek in those months he had been Joker’s prisoner. The scars he saw on Derek only painted half the picture of what horrors John imagined.

“Commissioner,” Parrish addressed John when he opened the door. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to do the questioning or not.”

John hesitated before shaking his head. “I’ll do it,” he roughly answered, forcefully moving from his spot. He grabbed two waters from the fridge, wishing he had something a little stronger to take the edge off. He still had no idea what Derek had been told about the situation, or what exactly he was going to ask Derek.

“Derek,” John gently uttered his name as he entered the interrogation room.

Derek remained silent as he turned his attention to John. He wondered who would come in to question him— _if_ he was going to be questioned at all. The paperwork involving him and his death was already complicated enough without adding in an amendment to his current status.

John sat down at the table, placing both waters in plain view for Derek to see.

Derek calmly made his way over to the table, moving to sit opposite John.

“This is never something I thought would happen,” John started as he opened the folder Parrish had handed him.

“You should be processing me,” Derek replied.

John looked from the folder to Derek. “I need to figure out who you are first,” he answered.

Derek stared back at John.

“Because I _know_ you look like Derek Hale,” John continued. He turned the folder around to face Derek, sliding it across the table for Derek to read.

Derek looked down at the pages, seeing an old mug shot Beacon PD had taken when he was seventeen—for loitering, the cops had originally cited. He saw the photograph of his corpse peaking out from beneath the other pages.

“But Derek Hale was shot multiple times in the chest over five years ago,” John continued. “He was pronounced dead on December 25th—because his uncle was a sick bastard.”

“He thought it meant something,” Derek offered, still hearing the jingle bells Peter had been prancing around with that morning. “He liked spectacle, and he thought it would be poetic—killing me on my birthday.”

John released a long, heavy sigh as he leaned back in his chair. That was the first personal thing Derek had opened up about the incident. “Are you telling me that the autopsy was wrong?”

“No,” Derek replied as he looked up at John. “I know you saw my scars,” he simply stated, his gaze briefly flickering over to the observation mirror. He pulled down on his shirt collar, exposing the very top of a scar—the scar that ran just below Derek’s collarbone from his shoulders, meeting in the middle of his chest before running down his torso.

“You couldn’t have survived that,” John stated.

“I didn’t have to,” Derek replied. He slowly pulled at the edge of the hidden photograph, pulling it loose from the paperclip. He rotated the photo as he observed the image of his dead body splay out on the asphalt, where Peter had left him. “I told you before, John … I was dead.”

“Then how are you here?” John questioned. “That’s a pretty damn important question for me to leave unanswered, son.”

Derek looked up at John. “And yet, I think you know.” He leaned back in his chair as he observed John. “I think you’ve always known more than you let on, John.”

John didn’t answer Derek’s baited accusation. “I want your version of events.”

“What’s there to tell?” Derek countered in reply. He spread out the papers in the folder, looking at the different detailed reports. He looked up at John. “I think it’s time you admitted the truth—not for me, but for Stiles.”

John’s hands clenched against the table. He gently shook his head. “What you said—about a Lazarus Pit … that’s impossible. There are none left,” he finally confessed.

“There are hundreds of them, John,” Derek replied. “Maybe even thousands,” he softly added, his words fearful of the consequences that could have for humanity. “They said Claudia chose not to use the Pit again,” he added. “I think she lied to you—to protect both you and Stiles.”

John looked uncertain. “Claudia never wanted what her father wanted,” he firmly stated, prepared to argue on behalf of Claudia’s actions.

“They want their leader back,” Derek cryptically admitted.

John stared at Derek, his gaze calculating. “What happened, Derek?”

Derek looked down at his hands on the table.

“I have to know,” John pressed. “For Stiles’ sake, I have to know what they want.”

~*~

Derek felt weightless. His body was floating through complete nothingness. He felt abandoned, confused and submerged in unconsciousness.

His thoughts drifted to his sisters, memories of a simpler time—before Peter disappeared from the hospital and wreaked havoc as the clown prince of crime. He remembered the little things that never appeared to matter before. He remembered the day Cora started middle school, how nervous and unsure she had been when Laura ushered her towards the school bus. He remembered Laura’s exhaustion whenever she came back from work, tiredly dropping on the couch before kicking her heels off as she mumbled something about needing more caffeine.

He wasn’t sure if he missed those moments, or hated them for how much he took them for granted.

A sudden fire burned through his chest, his bones mending and snapping back into place. Some force pulled him out of the abyss, casting him down to the ground as he writhed in the pain of knowing what happened to a life after death. His memories were fragmented, the pain shooting through his body.

His vision was blurry as a hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up.

A hooded figure was the only visible outline he could see before blacking out.

~*~

For days Derek struggled in a fever dream. He was certain this was Hell’s purgatory. He was haunted by nightmares of Stiles’ injury, blood staining their apartment’s carpet as Stiles wheezed out whimpering breaths of pain.

Those noises were the worst—the most painful things he still suffered.

Derek would never forget that moment.

He had been late for their date night, running another errand for Chris—the worst part was that he couldn’t even remember what it was. He had smiled to himself when he stopped in the flower shop for a quick moment, getting a bouquet of Stiles’ favorites—a mix of sunflowers, and orange lilies and roses. He was hoping Stiles would forgive him. He never realized he wouldn’t forgive himself for his tardiness.

Derek took the steps two at a time, hurrying up to the apartment. He hated himself for not realizing something was wrong when he saw the door partially cracked open.

His hand had barely touched the door, pushing it open the rest of the way as he walked into the apartment. “Babe—” His words died, his stomach twisting up in knots when he saw Stiles on the ground, a pool of blood staining the carpet beneath him.

The flowers were weights be couldn’t hold onto. The stems dropped from his fingers, bouquet to be forgotten in the doorway as he rushed forward.

Stiles was motionless, even to Derek’s pleas. He only spoke one word, croaking it out as Derek stayed close.

 _Joker_.

That one word from Stiles burned an anger in Derek that erupted when Chris came to the hospital.

John had to get in between Derek and Chris to stop them from fighting. He knew Chris had somehow been involved in what happened to Stiles when the nurses informed him on Stiles’ release that the medical bills had been paid for in advance.

Leaving the hospital with Stiles was the last moment Derek had with him before his torture. Before his death.

~*~

“Why?” Derek asked, distrusting of the league’s members.

“Do you not see that we want the same thing?” The woman replied, turning to look at Derek.

“You once thought Batman wanted the same as you,” Derek countered, turning his hands towards the heat of the fire. He never thought he would miss warmth as he did now.

“Batman lacks the conviction needed for our goals,” the woman answered. “We need someone willing to do the things that have to be done.”

Derek pulled the robes tighter around his shoulders as a barrier against the seeping cold. “What do you want from me?” He asked as he stared into the fire.

“We want you to reach your potential,” the woman concluded. “To get rid of those plaguing Beacon.”

Derek turned to look at the woman. “Fine.”

~*~

Derek trained until his bones cracked; until his knuckles bled. His brain was on fire the whole time, his memories playing on a loop as an endless motivation. He wondered if he would ever see Stiles again—or if he even deserved it.

He snuck away one night, wanting to catch even a glimpse of Stiles. He almost laughed when someone tried to mug him on his walk through the downtown streets. He wasn’t sure if he broke the man’s ribs, or only fractured them—but he didn’t care. He knew something was wrong with him the moment he woke, his empathy lost to his hatred and anger.

Stiles was leaving his physical therapy when Derek saw him from across the street.

Stiles looked down at his hands in his lap. He picked at the handfuls of his sweater as he let his dad push his wheelchair. He was always too exhausted to try after his physical therapy sessions.

“She said you did better today,” John started as they walked down the sidewalk.

“I don’t want to talk about it, dad,” Stiles softly replied. He pulled his hat down on his head more, hiding his ears from the cold. “It shouldn’t be this cold out,” he attempted to change the subject.

“They said Valentine’s Day is going to be pretty cold,” John answered.

“I’m still going,” Stiles quickly stated.

“We could go earlier—”

“I’m not leaving him,” Stiles forcefully answered. “I go every year—and our anniversary. And his birthday,” he sniffled some, wiping his gloved hand under his nose. “I’m going,” he firmly stated.

“I get it, kiddo,” John answered. “But you don’t have to go there to be close to him.”

Stiles kept quiet as he looked down at his legs in anger. He got mad at himself for not being able to do more than just twitch his toes every now and again. He’d never be able to walk again—he’d never be able to conduct a physical investigation into what happened to Derek. And he refused to ask Allison or Lydia, knowing they thought it was unhealthy for him to keep pursuing.

The streets were bustling despite the cold. There were many people crowding in around the different vendors and shops lining the streets. Stiles wasn’t surprised that more than one of the people kept bumping into them.

Stiles waved John off when he said he’d be right back, making a quicker entrance into the flower shop. He looked at the different people, seeing the number of couples and families mulling over flowers to purchase. He hated them, because he envied them. He offered a forced smile when his dad came back with white lilies.

Stiles had made fun of Derek for liking such a bland flower. But he couldn’t stop himself from getting it for whenever he visited the cemetery.

John started to turn them back towards home, expertly maneuvering them through the crowd that didn’t seem to want to part.

“Sorry,” John uttered when a stranger bumped into them.

“My fault,” the stranger replied. “Sorry about that.”

There was something in the man’s voice that forced Stiles to turn and look.

Stiles watched the hooded man walking in the opposite direction, crossing the street without giving so much as a look back to them.

“You okay?” John asked when he realized Stiles was turning as far as he could.

Stiles silently nodded, moving to sit back in his seat.

It wasn’t until they got home that Stiles saw the sunflower petals sticking out of his gym bag—the stem artfully slipped into the handles and resting in an outer pocket.

~*~

“You freaked Stiles out,” John replied to Derek’s retelling of what happened. “He thought I originally did it, until I showed him the receipt for just the lilies.”

“He looked sad,” Derek simply stated.

“You could have made him smile by showing your face,” John sternly countered.

“I couldn’t,” Derek answered. “I knew the League of Shadows wanted me for a reason—I couldn’t just come home without them knowing.”

“So what? The League of Shadows is helping Scarecrow,” John uttered in disbelief at Derek’s story.

“Scarecrow was a way to get the lowlifes out of hiding,” Derek replied as he looked down at his hands. “The League isn’t a huge concern at the moment,” he added.

“Meaning?” John pressed.

Derek looked up at John, his eyes pausing on the observation window for a moment. “They lied to me—wanted information I had.”

“What information?” John pressed.

“They want Stiles,” Derek finally stated.

John stared at Derek in disbelief. “That’s not possible—”

“Victoria—Ra’s al Ghul’s eldest,” Derek stated. “Remember her? Allison’s mother,” he elaborated. “I had only met her a handful of times before I died—she liked my lack of compassion for criminals.”

John closed his eyes, pressing his face into his hands as he leaned against the desk. “Victoria is Claudia’s half-sister,” he confessed.

“And who better to know where her half-sister’s child is than one of the Bat’s crime fighting family?” Derek uttered in contempt.

“That’s why she went after Chris,” John stated as he looked up at Derek.

“Claudia dated Chris for a while,” Derek simply offered. “Though she preferred you more—clearly.”

John shook his head. “What was Victoria’s plan? Try and get close enough to steal Claudia’s child?”

Derek sighed, relaxing into his chair more. “I told you, Claudia lied,” he explained. “Victoria knew she was leaving the League for a reason—that she was giving up immortality for something.” He sat forward, brushing his knuckles against the cold metal of the table. “Claudia was pregnant when she left the League—that was what she told Ra’s—and she told him it was Chris’ child. When Ra’s demanded she hand the child over as a replacement for her, she said she’d rather kill it.”

“Why didn’t he come after her? Force her back? Kill her himself?” John furiously demanded.

“Claudia was her father’s favorite,” Derek simply stated. “It’s why Ra’s let her leave with her head.”

“We had less than two decades together,” John uttered, pain in his voice as he remembered finding Claudia passed out in the kitchen, glasses shattered around her. “She said it was from using the Lazarus Pit too many times.”

“Claudia gave up her immortality, because she was ready for a normal life,” Derek offered. “She wanted Stiles to have a normal life—which is why she shielded him from the League by pretending to be an orphan.”

“So, Victoria wanted to bring Stiles back to Ra’s?” John asked.

Derek looked at John. “They wanted to use me to get to Stiles once they found out who he was,” he explained.

“And how did that work out for them?” John asked, wishing to know Derek’s hand in all this.

“I killed them,” Derek simply answered. “I know I didn’t kill Victoria—she slunk away to the Pit before I could.”

John stared at Derek. “And Ra’s?”

“He was a decrepit old man, terrified of death, when I drove a sword through his heart,” Derek answered. “I cut his head off to make sure he won’t come back.”

“If the Lazarus Pit can resurrect—”

“I put his head somewhere they won’t find it,” Derek corrected John’s assumption.

~*~

A loud explosion erupted.

~*~

"It’s Scarecrow," Allison explained as she kept pace with her father.

“How the hell did she get control of the Knight’s men?” Parrish asked.

“I think now that he’s indispose, they don’t care who leads them,” Chris stated.

“What the hell was that?” John demanded as he exited the interrogation room.

Another series of explosions rocked the building.

“Tanks,” Chris dryly stated.

John ordered his men to start mobilizing as he went in search of Stiles.

~*~

“You can’t leave him in there,” Stiles tried to argue, his anger turning into evident fear. He was terrified of losing Derek again.

“Stiles, calm down,” John stated for a third time when small shuttering breaths began to separate Stiles’ words. He knelt beside his son, grabbing both of Stiles’ shoulders in an attempt to ground him.

“They’re going to hurt him—”

“I was just with him, no one is going to hurt him, Stiles,” John firmly uttered. “You need to calm your breathing, kiddo, before you have a panic attack.”

Stiles closed his eyes tightly against the tears stinging them. “Please let me see him,” he softly begged. “I just— he’s here because of me, and I just want to be with him.”

John turned to look at those around him, seeing Nightwing and Batman stare back at him with no helpful suggestions. He stood up, quickly moving to lead Stiles down to the interrogation room.

“John, wait,” Chris started as he made a move to follow him. There was authority in his voice, as if he was about to tell John he was mad.

“The safest place for Stiles in this building is with Derek,” John sharply stated before Chris could say anything.

Derek at first didn’t move until he saw that it was Stiles coming into the room. He quickly stood up, his eyes moving to John. He was grateful for John closing the door before Chris could follow them in. “What’s happening?” He asked, knowing John left the room to discover the source of the explosions.

“Scarecrow is still after Batman, apparently,” John replied.

“I need a safe spot to work my magic,” Stiles finally stated as he gestured towards his laptop bag on the back of his wheelchair. “Dad apparently thinks that’s with you.”

Derek’s gaze was expressionless as he looked between the Stilinski men. “You think it’s a good idea to put your son with a highly violent criminal,” he flatly stated.

“I do,” Stiles uttered. “Besides, you like me in one piece,” he added as he started to pull his laptop bag into his lap.

Derek looked from Stiles to the Commissioner. “John—”

“Dad, you better get everyone together,” Stiles cut Derek off. “Tell Batman and Nightwing I’ll keep them updated on the tanks,” he continued as he got his laptop open, placing it on the interrogation table.

John left without another word being spoken.

Derek paced a few steps, turning to finally look at Stiles. He wasn’t surprised to find Stiles looking back at him.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles flatly stated as he looked back at his laptop to begin typing away.

“You want me to believe that you hate me, even though you want to be here with me,” Derek simply countered.

“No,” Stiles sharply stated. “I mean, you’re an asshole and you could have shown yourself instead of putting a sunflower in my gym bag.” He stopped typing, looking up at Derek when there wasn’t a response.

Derek stared at Stiles.

“It’s an interrogation room, Derek,” Stiles uttered, pointing at the observation window. “I may be in a wheelchair, but I can still get around just fine,” he huffed.

“You,” Derek stopped himself, looking down at his arms crossed over his chest. “You know the whole thing, then.”

“That wasn’t the whole thing, but … mostly, yeah,” Stiles answered. “We can sort through my family’s drama—and the fact that I am Allison’s half-cousin, I might add—when there aren’t tanks attacking the building we’re in.” He looked up at Derek. “And about you moving back home, too.”

Derek quietly observed Stiles. He figured he'd fight about the technicalities of it all later. He was tired, and it was all too good to question coming  _home_. He released a heavy breath, taking the necessary steps closer to Stiles until he could lean over and see the laptop’s screen. “Their armor is weak around the guns for cool down purposes,” was the first thing Derek offered as he gestured towards the tops of the tanks on Stiles’ screen.

“You hear that, Nightwing?” Stiles stated outloud as he looked at Derek.

“Uh, yeah, totally,” Allison answered, clearing her throat some. “Also, um, we’re cousins?” She asked in confusion.

“What?” Chris’ voice suddenly interrupted across the comms.

“Oh my God, we’re all _literally_ family,” Lydia's voice answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end! The next chapter is more healing and fluff that is definitely needed. (Because Derek Hale needs to be wrapped up in a nice fluffy warm blanket with Stiles).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, (I guess)!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. I had a plan to have the League of Shadows play another threatening roll, but I decided that a healing chapter was more important of a note to end on.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Stiles concentrated on the screens before him, watching Derek lay motionless on the table for Lydia to continue her scans.

“He’s okay,” Allison stated as she came to stand beside Stiles. She crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the countertop.

With Derek’s help, they managed to annihilate the tanks in a matter of minutes. Scarecrow wasn’t that hard to deal with afterwards. Nightwing and Batman left the precinct to deal with the villains, and Stiles stayed behind with Derek. Lydia was the one that arrived with falsified paperwork, getting Derek released on technicalities. In the end, Miranda rights were an easy way to invalidate an arrest—even one as high profiled as the Eichen Knight of Beacon.

Now all that was left was piecing together the scattered pages of their lives, trying to find out where Derek fit back into it all.

Stiles sighed, propping his arm up on the rest of his wheelchair. His gaze lingered on the large monitor, taking in the computer’s findings and images of Derek’s scars. “He died,” he finally stated. “He was dead for almost a year, and the League of Shadows dug him up—” his voice cracked, shaking his head. “He’s still in pain, and I can’t do a damn thing.”

“Stiles, you can’t blame yourself,” Allison started as she turned towards Stiles, pushing off the counter’s side.

“I lost him once, and I almost lost him this time,” Stiles replied. “How can I try to help him with this, when he is valid in his hatred for those responsible?”

Allison looked up, allowing her head to hang back as she observed the ceiling of the Bat Cave. “If we let each other wallow in that misery, it becomes toxic. We can’t do anything but wade deeper, then.”

“How do I keep him safe?” Stiles asked.

“You can’t,” Allison honestly stated, despite how cruel it felt to admit. “We can never keep any of us safe, not with the work we do.”

“You feel that way even about Lucy?” Stiles pressed, looking up at Allison.

“It might shock my dad, but I’d kill for Lucy,” Allison answered. “Just like I know you’d kill for those you love.” She turned to look at Stiles. “We can’t help what we’ll do to keep our loved ones safe. But staying in the past for too long can lead down a dark path. My dad still hasn’t coped with not being able to save his parents—with not saving you, or Derek. He’s lost each of us, in one way or another, because he’s too focused on what’s good for Beacon.”

Stiles looked back at the monitors, realizing that Lydia had completed her tests. He looked down to where Derek was redressing himself. He could see the scars on Derek’s body easier now than he had in the police station. He could see the exit scars of the bullets Peter had shot into Derek’s chest. He could see scrapes and gashes, the remnants of what looked like claws.

Stiles had no idea what Derek had been through with the League of Shadows. But he wished he had been able to prevent it.

Derek looked up at where Allison and Stiles were, his gaze lingering on Stiles for a prolonged moment.

“You seem to be in very fit shape,” Lydia commented as she turned her attentions towards the computer monitor. “Whatever happened with the Lazarus Pit, it’s still healing you somehow.”

“I only used it the once,” Derek stated, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, my dead body was thrown into it. If that counts.”

“It reanimated your body,” Lydia added. “It healed all the wounds on your body,” she muttered to herself as she compared the autopsy report to the scans of different scars the computer detected throughout Derek’s body.

“It made me stronger, too,” Derek commented, stealing a glance at the autopsy.

“Are there any other symptoms?” Lydia questioned, looking up above her glasses at Derek.

Derek looked over to Stiles again, mulling over his answer. “I’m missing … some time,” he finally admitted.

Lydia pursed her lips as she pondered Derek’s confession. “Anything specific?”

“Some childhood stuff,” Derek offered, shuffling his weight a little as he tried not to squirm under Lydia’s gaze. “Even some of my training.”

“I wouldn’t say you forgot any training,” Allison answered from her perch up on the platform. “You got me good more than once.”

Derek snorted at that, shaking his head. “Muscle memory.”

“What about me?” Stiles asked, breaking the obvious silence lingering in the room.

Derek looked up at Stiles, his brow furrowed. “I clearly remember you, Stiles.”

“But what do you remember?” Stiles pushed.

Derek frowned at that. “I don’t think that’s important.”

“Before you went missing, you and Stiles were closest,” Allison countered. “It could help piece things together.”

“It’s not important what you forgot, just if it was more recent memory,” Lydia offered an out.

“Nothing,” Derek forcefully snapped before Allison could speak. “I remember every little detail about it all, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, grabbing his leather jacket from the table as he moved to exit the cave.

Lydia rolled her eyes before going back to the computer.

“I’ll talk to him,” Allison offered.

“No,” Stiles quickly stated, sighing when he realized how loud he said it—almost like he was shouting at Allison. “No, I’ll talk to him.”

“Okay,” Allison agreed, offering Stiles a supportive smile.

Stiles was thankful that Chris actually took his wheelchair into consideration when renovating the Bat Cave. He never would have been able to make it to Derek otherwise—not when he found Derek leaning against the balcony that lead outside the cave, overlooking the drop down to the water below.

Derek kept quiet as he listened to the waves and the sound of Stiles’ wheelchair gliding across the grates. They both kept silent for a beat, merely sharing the same air together.

“You know that’s not what I meant, right?” Stiles weakly asked through the silence.

“Didn’t you, though?” Derek countered as he turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles bitterly shook his head. “I know you’re not the same—not after what the League did. But I want to know that I’m not changing the ground we stand on. That I’m not at a different part of our relationship than you—”

“You were the only thing I thought about the whole time,” Derek admitted, cutting Stiles’ rant short.

Stiles stared up at Derek.

“It didn’t matter how good I got at killing, or how quickly I rose up through their ranks,” Derek explained as he leaned back against the railing. “All I could think about was you.”

“About that night,” Stiles corrected Derek.

“Yes,” Derek admitted. “And no.”

Stiles was surprised by that.

“I thought about our first night patrolling together,” Derek explained as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought about the first time we kissed.”

Stiles faintly smiled at the memories. He remembered the first time they kissed so vividly. It was right after a skirmish, one of the Joker’s goons managing to cut a thin line low across Stiles’ jaw. Derek snapped the man’s arm in retaliation.

Stiles had pressed Derek up against the ventilation system running along the rooftop they disappeared to. He kissed Derek with such hope, he thought he had been dreaming when Derek kissed him back.

“And that night in Blüdhaven.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, his heart racing at that memory in particular.

That was the first night they slept together. They had a private moment to rest—a night without Chris berating them for not following orders. They won their fight, though neither of them could now recall what it was about—all those skirmishes and fights blurred into one with the years they dedicated to it.

But this night was theirs. They had some cabin to hide away in, courtesy of Argent Enterprises. And they didn’t waste their time. They kissed each other’s scars, worshipping each other’s bodies as they came together for the first time after nights of tense longing.

They laid in bed for hours, leaving their communicators off as they pretended to be normal—for once.

It was the beginning of a change in their outlook on Chris’ idea of what a vigilante lifestyle entailed.

“I could only think about you the whole time, Stiles,” Derek concluded. “About how I could get back to you.”

“Then _why_ didn’t you come to me?” Stiles pressed, tears burning his eyes as he thought about the time they lost.

“I couldn’t,” Derek admitted.

“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” Stiles sharply demanded.

“Couldn’t!” Derek finally shouted back. “I couldn’t face you, Stiles, and have you see what I am now!” He moved to kneel in front of Stiles, his knees hitting the grates hard as he practically collapsed. He pressed his forehead against Stiles’ knees, his hands gripping the sides of Stiles’ wheelchair tightly. “You have no idea what the Joker did to me, Stiles,” he stated in a wavering tone. “He gutted me out—made me hollow. And then the League— they didn’t care. Not about me. You.”

Stiles touched his hands to Derek shoulders, trying to wrap around him as best he could.

“You were all I wanted,” Derek confessed. “I wanted our life back.”

Stiles pressed a hesitant kiss to the side of Derek’s head, just above his ear as he softly spoke, “We have that back.”

A suppressed sob broke through Derek’s chest as he clung to Stiles tighter.

It felt like a step in the right direction—as if Stiles had broken the first barricade between them, and Derek wasn’t resisting the change.

~*~

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lydia asked as she stopped tapping her pen on the pad of paper. She turned her head to the side as she observed Derek.

Derek was slouched in his chair as he looked out the window. “This is a little … unethical,” he solemnly stated, leaning his head in his palm.

“Considering that you’ve been ordered to get through some therapy sessions by the Commissioner, I think this is the best scenario we could have,” Lydia plainly replied.

“Your ex boyfriend shot me in the chest multiple times after months of torturing me,” Derek lowly stated as he turned to look at Lydia for the first time.

“We all have scars from the Joker,” Lydia replied, her tone tight and guarded. “He called them love tokens.” She silently turned her head to the side, displaying her neck for Derek to see the scar cutting low, above her clavicle.

Peter had thrown the knife at Lydia while they hid in the funhouse, waiting for Batman to show up. He told Lydia not to move, to stay just as she was, lingering in front of the dartboard aligning with her head.

His aim just shy of a bullseye. He laughed as Lydia tried to stop the bleeding.

His laugh still echoed loudly for her.

Derek pointed to the ‘J’ Peter had burned into his cheek just days before his uncle recorded his execution. “Just another token of my uncle’s love, I guess.”

“So you resent me for being manipulated by Peter,” Lydia answered Derek’s contempt with blunt logic. She unceremoniously tossed her pen and pad of paper off to the side, uncaring when they fell to the ground. “If you want to walk, no one is stopping you, Derek,” she explained as she gestured towards the door. “But I didn’t go to medical school to have you act as if I am an unfeeling moron like those in Eichen. And I definitely will not let you sit there and lecture me on what is and isn’t ethical.”

Derek remained silent.

“I’ve come to terms with what Peter did to me,” Lydia continued. “And what I did while with him.” She slid her glasses off, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tried to counter the headache that was building. “When I was with him, I couldn’t see what was happening around me,” she softly confessed. “It wasn’t until …” She’d never forget the memory of Allison pulling her out of the rubble of the destroyed chemical plant.

Peter left her, like he always did when she was no longer essential to his plan. She was so blind to it, thinking that any attention he gave her was enough—even the abusive kind.

Then she was pregnant, and her world shifted.

Allison was the one that saved her, though—who carried her bloody body out of the crumbling debris of what was left of Arkham City. She stayed in the hospital with Lydia, having washed the clown make-up away, and explaining away her tattoos were the consequences of being a villain fanatic when the doctors implied her similarities to the Joker’s Harley Quinn.

“I’ve survived your uncle’s schemes,” Lydia finally stated. “And I continue to deal with having survived his abuse … and Stockholm Syndrome.” She moved to stand, spinning on her heel a bit as she moved over to her desk. She opened one of the bottom drawers, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. She looked up at Derek. “So, if you rather talk over a drink, like two colleagues—maybe even _friends_ —catching up on lost time, I think I can manage to listen.”

Derek finally moved to sit up in his chair, taking in the sincerity of Lydia’s words. “I could use a drink.”

~*~

“ _You think this is going to go well?_ ” Stiles’ voice questioned through the phone.

Allison shuffled her hold on Lucy, smiling when the little girl grabbed at her glasses. She pressed a kiss to the tip of Lucy’s nose, releasing a small laugh of her own when Lucy giggled. “I think you’re over analyzing this,” she answered, walking through the playroom as she grabbed another one of Lucy’s scattered toys.

“ _I’m scared of pushing him_ ,” Stiles replied.

“Stiles, this is Derek,” Allison simply answered, a fondness in her tone. “Do you honestly think you could force him to do something he didn’t want to do?”

“ _If he thought it would please me, he’d do it_ ,” Stiles softly countered.

“He needs help, Stiles,” Allison reassured him as she moved the phone to her other ear, just as Lucy tried to grab it. “And you just want him to be happy and healthy, which isn’t a selfish request at all,” she added as an afterthought, unsure if Stiles realized that.

“ _I know, but …_ ” Stiles sighed.

Allison sighed as she set Lucy down, watching as the young girl ran over to start cleaning up the mess she had made. “Stiles—”

“ _You can’t tell me you didn’t have this fear—this uncertainty, when Lydia switched sides_ ,” Stiles quickly pointed out.

Allison allowed her eyes to linger on Lucy.

Lucy looked a great deal like a Hale.

Peter managed, in the end, to leave his mark on the world.

Lucy had Peter’s eyes. And when she would laugh and smile widely, there was something about that beautifully endearing expression that could be mistaken for teetering on the edge of twisting into something different—sinister in nature. It was why Lydia would have moments of panic, as if she was still trapped in an endless loop with Peter, and the past years of freedom with Allison had all been a lie.

Allison could see the moments when it all got to be too much—when Lydia would start to get antsy, as if she was restless and needed to do something besides being a mother. Those were the days that Allison made sure Lydia leaned on her.

“Do you love him?” Allison asked Stiles, her gaze still drawn to Lucy.

Lucy got distracted from putting the rest of her toys away as she played with one of her dolls that she had picked up.

“ _I never stopped_ ,” Stiles answered.

“Then show him,” Allison replied. “Be there for him, let him know you aren’t going to leave because of anything that’s happened—that you aren’t leaving him behind if he has a couple of setbacks.”

“ _Is that what you tell Lydia_ ,” Stiles softly asked, wishing he could get more direction.

“Every day,” Allison easily admitted. “I make a point to let her know, at least once a day, that she has me.”

~*~

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Derek barely whispered. He was sitting on the other half of the couch, just next to Stiles. He kept a gap between them as he settled into the cushions.

“No offense,” Stiles started with a sigh. “But you don’t get to avoid your family after they’ve thought you were dead for years.”

“I was,” Derek countered. He wanted everyone to know that he didn’t make the initial decision to die. He hid after his resurrection, terrified of his own corrupted mind and twisted thoughts.

Stiles shifted on the couch some, trying to get a better angle to face Derek. He settled with pulling one leg to bend against the cushion, facing Derek. “Der,” he softly stated his name as he touched Derek’s hand. “I was with my dad when he told them,” he explained, his fingers interlacing with Derek’s. “They were in shock at first, but really excited to see you again.”

Derek barely nodded in acceptance.

Stiles looked at the door when he heard the doorknob turning. He tightened his hold on Derek’s hand, offering a small smile when Derek looked at him in uncertainty.

Laura looked the same as Derek remembered. Her hair mirroring their mother’s, long with elegant waves. Despite it all, her eyes couldn’t hide just how tired she looked.

Cora was completely different. She had been a child the last time Derek saw her, but he could see their familial relation. She and Laura looked so similar, Derek wasn’t entirely sure he was surprised by that—there were photos, he remembered, of Laura and him growing up, and it wasn’t hard to see Cora’s resembling Laura.

“Derek,” Laura’s voice broke in a shuttering breath as she dropped her purse to the ground to be forgotten. She rushed forward, arms outstretched as she practically fell into Derek as he stood. She wrapped her arms around Derek’s neck, holding on tight. “Derek—how,” her voice cracked with a sob, the rest of her words unintelligible.

Cora stood beside John, watching as her sister clung to a stranger. She wished she could recall more than the fractured memories she had before everything became so twisted. She was only eleven when Derek died. Now, at seventeen, she had no clue who the man in front of her was.

“I’m sorry,” was all Derek could say as he held onto Laura. His gaze looked to Cora, wanting to see how she was taking the news.

Cora looked to the ground out of shame for not feeling the elation Laura did. But she wasn’t certain of anything in Beacon anymore. She wasn’t sure this was the same Derek that had been taken from them.

Laura pulled away from Derek to wipe at her tears, trying to keep her makeup from smudging to no avail. “I wish I didn’t put on makeup this morning,” she lightly laughed, sniffling some. She turned to look at Cora, wanting to make sure she got a moment to hug Derek.

“Why don’t we all sit?” John asked, trying to prompt the Hales into a closer proximity.

Cora didn’t move, even when Laura tried to get her to come closer to Derek.

Derek backed away from them, his steps heavy and prepared to quicken to an escape. But before he could run away, Stiles’ hand grabbed his, forcing him to look down at the younger man.

Stiles gave Derek a comforting smile, his grip loose enough for Derek to pull out of if he so wished. He eased Derek down to the couch, pulling Derek until they sat pressed up against one another. He linked his arm with Derek’s, threading their fingers together as they held hands.

Laura lightly smiled at the sight of Derek holding Stiles’ hand. She sat across from them, happy when Cora finally wandered over to sit next to her. “So,” she started, sneaking a quick glance at Cora before continuing. “Tell us what happened.”

~*~

Derek was leaning against the porch’s railings when John’s footfalls alerted him of the impending conversation they were about to have. He tapped his cigarette against his fingers, knocking the ash off into the gravel below. He watched the ash’s glow die out before ultimately disappearing into the dark

John silently stood beside Derek, leaning against the opposite porch post. “I think it went well.”

“I made my sister cry,” Derek numbly replied. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drawing in a long drag. “Twice,” he added on exhale.

“They’re happy to see you,” John tried to offer in comfort.

“Laura was in near hysterics,” Derek corrected him. “While Cora kept staring at me like I murdered Santa Claus,” he huffed out.

Cora had come around to actually speaking to Derek, instead of about him. She even hugged Derek before they left, her rigidness subsiding some as she seemed to cling to him longer than she intended.

“They’ve spent years mourning you,” John offered in explanation. “We all did.”

Derek turned to look at John.

John looked out at their surroundings, taking in the calming silence of the evening for the first time in weeks. “There are still nights that I think I’m going to wake to Stiles screaming again, because it’s all a dream.”

Derek took one last drag of his cigarette before moving to the side, lifting his foot to snuff out the end of the cigarette against the sole of his boot. “I wish I could change that, John,” he softly confessed, his tone layered with guilt.

“You can’t change the past, Derek,” John replied, turning to face Derek. He reached a hand out to touch Derek’s shoulder. “But we can work on preventing any repeats.” He pulled Derek into his embrace, patting the younger man’s back.

Derek closed his eyes as he slumped into John’s hug, clinging to the older man in an attempt to rationalize his own repentance. “I’ve done things—”

“That’s over now,” John countered, unwilling to let Derek blame himself. “We’re just glad to have you back, son.”

~*~

Stiles turned on his side, shifting his body to avoid his shirt twisting around his torso. He looked at Derek’s back, reaching a hand out to touch him. His hand caressed over Derek’s shoulder blade, moving up to settle on his shoulder. He tried not to linger on the scars he felt, despite Derek’s tank top acting as a layer.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Derek answered Stiles’ silent question.

“It’s okay,” Stiles answered without hesitation.

Derek had taken to staying with Stiles and John, for the time being. He had been skittish at the first mention of the idea, but he couldn’t deny how content he felt in being so close to the Stilinski men. He had been determined to protect them, and there was nothing easier for him to do than have the close proximity.

Stiles moved to sit, his hand leaving Derek for a moment as he did his best to sit up effortlessly. He still had minor difficulty, but his upper body strength had still developed over his years with physical therapy.

Derek turned his body to face Stiles when he felt the bed shake under them, his arm moving to rest on the other side of Stiles’ hip, propping his body partially over Stiles as they came face to face. “I thought I’d wake up back underground,” he admitted, looking down at Stiles hands.

Stiles reached up to take Derek’s face in his hands. “Me too,” he confessed.

Derek pulled his face away from Stiles when he felt Stiles’ lingering touch on the ‘J’ burned into his cheek. He didn’t want Stiles thinking about it—he knew it was the first thing everyone saw and immediately thought about whenever facing him.

“We can get it removed,” Stiles offered.

“It won’t change it,” Derek replied in a soft tone. “This wasn’t the worst thing he did to me,” he admitted, his hand tightening into a fist against the sheets.

Stiles touched his hand to Derek’s chest. “We can talk about it if you want,” he offered, unsure if he was the right person for Derek to talk to. He wanted to help him—to save him from his own thoughts.

“He had photos of that night,” Derek stated, closing his eyes against the memory. “Photos of you, laying on the apartment floor— bleeding out.”

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s tank top, pressing his face against Derek’s shoulder. “I remember him standing over me … he said something about how mad you’d be at the mess—”

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling him flush against his chest. He pressed his face into the curve of Stiles’ neck, holding him tightly.

Stiles held onto Derek in return.

“He wrapped me in barbwire,” Derek began. “He beat me with a crowbar. He burned this into my face as a reminder. But none of that …” He pressed his hands across Stiles’ back, biting back the sharp sob he felt breaking through his chest. “When I didn’t break how he wanted me to, he’d give me a photo of you from that night—”

“He can’t hurt us, not anymore,” Stiles answered as he pushed his fingers through Derek’s hair. He tried to comfort the shakes he felt move through Derek’s body. “We have each other, Derek, and I’m never letting someone else take you from me.”

~*~

Derek stood by the base of the grave marker, his eyes focused on the dates etched into the stone. He wondered how many nights Stiles came here—with his father, or alone. He couldn’t stop thinking about Stiles staring down at his grave, wondering what he could have done different to prevent Stiles such pains.

Derek’s gaze turned to his mother’s and father’s markers. He remembered the funeral better than Laura. He hadn’t cried until after, unsure why he didn’t feel anything. He had carried Cora in his arms as they walked back to the car.

He never realized that it was going to be one of the last times he saw Peter as his uncle.

Derek was glad Peter had not been buried in his family’s plot, knowing the man died long before the Joker had. He laid the lilies on his parents’ graves, choosing to ignore his own as he turned to leave.

Derek wasn’t ready to have the grave marker removed—he wasn’t sure he would ever be. It felt like a reminder of what he managed to overcome to get back to Stiles.

~*~

“Come on, Stiles,” the physical therapist encouraged him.

“I still can’t walk,” Stiles replied, releasing a heavy breath. “Nothing is changing,” he bitterly stated.

It was still frustrating to have gone through everything, and to make what felt like no progress. After years of physical therapy, Stiles couldn’t do much.

“You moved your toes some last week, Stiles,” the therapist answered Stiles’ negative comment. He had been hopeful it would turn Stiles’ bitterness around. He had seen the x-rays of Stiles’ spine after the surgeries—there was a small chance that Stiles would start walking again anytime soon. But his goal was to motivate Stiles to keep his physical therapy active, knowing what happened to those that just gave up.

“Yeah, my toes,” Stiles hollowly echoed.

“Sir, you can’t go in there,” a woman’s voice explained in a concerned tone.

Stiles turned his head to look at the door leading out to the waiting room. He was surprised to see that it was Derek walking into the exercise area.

“Sir—” the physical therapist began as he stood up to address Derek. He appeared hesitant when he realized how much bigger Derek actually was once the man was closer to them.

“It’s okay,” Stiles quickly stated, reaching a hand out to take ahold of Derek’s. “He’s my boyfriend,” he offered, looking up at Derek as he ignored the others. “You’re early, I still have half an hour.”

“I wanted to support you,” Derek answered as he looked down at Stiles.

Stiles smiled at Derek. “That would be nice to have.”

~*~

Stiles partially huffed when the communicator’s rang echoed loudly. He grabbed the small device, clicking it on to yell at Chris for contacting him in the middle of the night—when he wasn’t on patrol.

The video was clear, though Chris didn’t say anything when he first saw that Stiles was in his bed.

“Did I … wake you?” Chris finally asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Most people tend to be asleep at 3am, Chris,” Stiles tiredly answered as he yawned. “I have physical therapy tomorrow,” he added as an afterthought.

“Sorry,” Chris guiltily answered.

“What did you need?” Stiles asked regardless.

“When you’re in the Cave again, we need you to run a program on the computer to make sure everything is up to protocol,” Chris replied. “We need to undo what the Knight did.”

Stiles rolled his eyes as he nodded. “Okay, I’ll put it on the to-do list. Well, I’m going to go back to sleep, then.” He waved his hand at the communicator before clicking it off. He pulled the blankets around him more, relaxing into the mattress.

Stiles started to drift off after a few minutes, Derek’s weight a solid anchor against his back.

The communicator started to ring once more.

Derek pushed up, aggressively reaching across Stiles to get to the communicator first.

“Stiles—” Chris stopped talking when he realized it was Derek.

“It’s 3 in the fucking morning, Chris,” Derek snapped at him. “I will give Stiles the algorithm to run, and your computer will be fine.”

Stiles faintly smiled as he looked up at Derek, admiring Derek’s scowl.

“Now, go the fuck to bed, and leave us alone so we can sleep, too,” Derek concluded before he turned the communicator off, nearly slamming it down on the night stand.

Stiles reached a hand up, running his fingers through Derek’s hair. “You just yelled at the most powerful man in the world for me,” he stated with a fond smile.

“He needs a hobby—one that doesn’t involve being up at all hours of the night,” Derek answered, moving to settle behind Stiles once more as he hugged the younger man to his chest.

Stiles snorted. “As if that would ever happen.”

“Until then, he can leave us alone,” Derek replied.

“My knight in tri-weave, titanium coated armor,” Stiles mumbled with an amused smile on his lips.

Derek's light laugh made Stiles' stomach twist and tumble with happiness at how right it sounded.

They weren't back to where they had been before it all, but they were on solid ground. It was a start to their rebirth. And it was a _good_ start.


End file.
